


Misery Business

by notinmyvocab



Series: Misery [3]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven, American Horror Story: Hotel, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, F/F, F/M, Magic, Murder, Mystery, Romance, buckle up kids it's a hell of a ride, character arcs and self discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 24,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notinmyvocab/pseuds/notinmyvocab
Summary: When the famous crime novelist, Derek Noble, dies, his adopted daughter, Isabel, takes it upon herself to complete his unfinished book about the Hotel Cortez. When Isabel dares to stay at the Hotel Cortez, she is forced to question the reality she thought she knew.





	1. Prologue

_October, 2015_

She had yet to hear of the accident. She had yet to hear any news of how Derek Noble, a world renowned crime novelist, had died that morning in a terrible six car collision on his way to visit her. She didn't know until the police came to the door.

The day started out innocently. The sun was shining brightly when twenty-year-old Isabel Noble had woken up. She then showered, and made herself breakfast after getting dressed. She lived in a dingy apartment in New Orleans, not too far from Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies. It honestly wasn't much, but it was home to her.

Life was decent for her. She had a steady job at the local café where she was a waitress. She loved being in New Orleans. Everything had fallen perfectly into place after what felt like years of struggling. Isabel had worked hard to not be overshadowed by her father's name. As much as she loved him, she always hated people judging her because of his name.

Isabel hummed softly to the music that played while she made herself breakfast. Soft jazz played from an old record player that she had. She swayed her hips a little as she stirred her scrambled eggs.

Halloween would be coming up soon, which meant taking a trip to Los Angeles to visit her father and avoid her mother.

Isabel had not spoken to her mother for about four years. Her mother, Constance Langdon, aggravated her so much for so many reasons, surprisingly none of those reasons being the fact that Constance gave her up for adoption. That was the one thing she was grateful for. Her mother was overbearing, a liar, and had nearly gotten her killed.

Other than Constance, Isabel loved being home. That was what the Murder House was to her: home. Her friends were there. Her family was there. She just never expected to go back for longer than her Halloween visits.

Suddenly, as Isabel was plating her food, there was a knock on her apartment door. Isabel frowned faintly and turned off the stove. She answered the door and was surprised to find two police officers. The both were holding their hats in their hands.

"Mornin' ma'am," said the female officer solemnly, a grim expression upon her countenance. It wasn't hard to see that this really was Isabel Noble. She was almost as famous as her adoptive father. And even if they didn't know her face, they had the correct address. "Sorry to disturb you. But uh… we've got some bad news for you."

Isabel tried reading the officers' expressions. She felt worry bubble up inside of her. "What's wrong?" She was afraid to ask, yet the words slipped past her lips, almost involuntarily.

There was a pause that felt like it lasted an eternity, and Isabel felt grateful for that pause. It allowed her to mentally prepare herself for what was about to be said. "It's your father." The male officer spoke this time. "There's been an accident. I'm sorry Miss Noble…. He didn't make it."


	2. Chapter One

She never thought she would step foot in this house without her father being there. It was shocking, really. Hardly anything had changed since she had last been here a year ago. Isabel had only lived in the house for a few months, yet it felt so familiar. It was like Derek was still alive.

It had been left to her in her father's will. It hadn't been hard for Derek to pay off the mortgage; he could certainly afford it. So the Murder House was now Isabel's. The deed was in her name. It all belonged to her.

She traversed across the threshold, venturing further into the home that had once been hers and was now hers again.

"I hope everything is to your liking," said none other than Marcy Huber, who had sold the house to the Nobles back in 2011.

Bitter remarks danced on the tip of Isabel's tongue, but she miraculously managed to stop them. She kept looking around, as if expecting to see someone. And of course she was. After all, she and her father hadn't been the only residents in this house when they bought it.

"Thanks, Marcy," Isabel said to the realtor with a forced smile.

"And you're absolutely sure you've no interest in selling?" Marcy asked. That was her reason for being there. She sincerely hoped that Isabel would confirm that she wasn't going to put the house on the market. Marcy had a hard enough time with this place and the fact that yet another person died after living here wasn't going to help. At least this time no one died  _in_  the house.

"I'm absolutely sure," Isabel assured Marcy.

They said their goodbyes and Marcy left. Isabel stood in the entryway of the living room, waiting.

Why was no one making an appearance? They all knew her at this point, so why bother hiding? Then it occurred to her what day it was: Halloween. No one was showing up because they were all gone. Well… not all of them.

Isabel went to the basement door. There was a chill that went down her spine. She would have to be careful. She knew what was down there. The scar on her arm tingled. It was in the shape of a bite mark; an old wound given to her by Thaddeus Montgomery, the infantata born to Nora and Charles Montgomery. She would have to be careful.

Slowly, Isabel descended the stairs of basement. They creaked beneath her feet. Oddly enough, the sound helped her relax as it broke the eerie silence that filled the stiff air. Isabel ran her hand along the wall when she reached the bottom step to try and find the light switch. The lights flickered on, illuminating the dusty basement.

"Nora?" Isabel called out softly. She didn't see the blonde haired woman who haunted this place, dazed and confused most of the time. Isabel was sure to keep an eye out for Charles, Nora's husband. He was more or less a little crazy and creepy what with his drug addiction and his experiments.

She was met with silence. Perhaps Nora left the house too? It was the only time of the year that the ghosts could leave the property. Normally the Montgomerys didn't leave, but perhaps times had changed. Isabel couldn't be sure seeing as she hadn't been here for a long while.

"Do you have an appointment with my husband?" Isabel turned suddenly and faced Nora Montgomery, who was staring at her with a quizzical expression and a tilted head. "You'll have to come back later; we're very busy right now… we're… my baby, we're looking for my baby. I have to find him."

"Nora," Isabel said firmly. "Nora, it's me, Izzy." Surely Nora remembered her?

Nora studied Isabel for a few moments, brow furrowed. "Izzy? No, no Isabel is younger. She's shorter. She doesn't have glasses. She's not you."

Right. One year ago, Isabel didn't have glasses and today she hadn't put in her contacts. One year ago, she had been a little shorter. One year ago, she had been younger. But she was still Isabel. The young woman took off her glasses and Nora's image became a little blurry. "It's me, Nora. It's Izzy."

Nora raised her eyebrows as she suddenly recognized Isabel. "Izzy, what are you doing here?" she asked as Isabel put her glasses back on. "You left us… why did you leave?"

"I have my reasons," Isabel answered, being vague on purpose. She knew there was no sense in trying to actually explain to Nora why she hadn't been home for a year. She tried explaining every year, yet it was always the same question of why did she leave. "How've you been?" It was nice that she was managing to have an actual conversation with Nora, although she had a feeling that this wasn't going to last long.

Sure enough, Nora got that glazed look in her sapphire eyes once more. "Worried. So worried… my baby is missing. I need to find my baby." She clutched her lace handkerchief tightly, eyes darting around the basement. "Thaddeus, he was stolen. He was stolen from me and I need him back. I need…"

Isabel sighed quietly, shaking her head as she turned away from Nora, keeping an eye out for Thaddeus. He had attacked her once, she sure as hell wasn't going to let that happen again.

She paused a moment in her steps when she heard a low animalistic rumbling coming from a shadowy corner of the basement. It was the infantata, growling as if to warn Isabel that she better get the hell out of there, which was exactly what she did. Isabel hurried up the stairs, shutting the light off and plunging the basement into total darkness.

Back on the main floor of the house, Isabel stood, taking everything in. The last time she was here for more than just a visit, she had been with her father. He had been writing a crime novel about the Murder House. It seemed like only yesterday he was holed up in his study, working tirelessly with his research on every death that happened in this house.

Now he was gone. Gone forever, like Adelaide Langdon, because he hadn't died in the house. Tears pricked Isabel's eyes and she took off her glasses to wipe them away.

Then, a familiar scent hit her nose. It was the scent of sweet perfume mixed with cigarettes. With a mind of their own, Isabel's legs guided her into the kitchen. And sure enough, there was the one person she absolutely did not want to see at a time like this: her mother.

Constance Langdon.


	3. Chapter Two

"What the hell are you doing here?" Isabel asked with a bitter tone as she stared her mother down. It was the first full sentence she had said to her mother in years.

Constance didn't expect this to be a happy reunion. Her relationship with her fourth and only living child was complicated.

She had put her fourth child up for adoption as soon as she was born, thinking that she would turn out as cursed as her other children. But her second daughter hadn't. She had been perfectly normal when she had been born. No physical deformities, however Constance had worried about mental issues, like with her son, Tate, who had been gunned down by the SWAT team only months before the baby girl's birth. Constance just hadn't want to deal with another failure of a child. She had made that promise to herself as she had cried her heart out over the loss of Tate that she would not raise another child who would only be a curse to her.

Seventeen years later, her baby girl came back into her life with the name Isabel Noble and a father named Derek, who just so happened to be a famous crime novelist. The two of them had traveled all around the country, and in 2011 they had moved into the Murder House so that he could write another novel about the numerous crimes that took place in the house. And it had been quite the rollercoaster from the moment they moved in and the ride wasn't over yet.

"I'm sorry, is it a crime to check on my daughter after losing someone very close to her?" Constance asked rhetorically as she tapped her cigarette on the edge of the crystal ashtray. When Derek had been alive, Constance had come over to the house almost every day and smoked nearly every time she was there, so he had bought the ashtray.

Constance took in the appearance of her daughter. She was a little taller and she had glasses now. Yet Isabel still bore some resemblance to her, though a lot of Isabel's features came from her father, Larry Harvey. Isabel's hair was dark like her father's had been. But she had her mother's cairngorm gem eyes.

"I'm not in the mood to see you," Isabel stated bluntly. She wasn't in the mood to see any living person, really. Especially not Constance and not because this woman gave her up for adoption when she was born. She harbored a lot of anger towards Constance for plenty of other reasons.

"Oh come now, you're just being stubborn."

"So what if I am?" Isabel said sharply. She stood her ground, staring down her mother. "You are the last person I want to see right now."

That hurt Constance more than she let on. Her remaining child hated her. Why should Isabel hate her? All she did was help her daughter realize her true potential; showed her the power she held within herself. Constance pursed her lips, trying to decide what to do. It seemed this was one battle she would have to let Isabel win.

"Fine," she said, standing up. She half hoped that Isabel would stop her, but knew that no such thing would happen. And that stung. She hadn't spoken to her daughter in four years. Finally they were united again and Isabel wanted nothing to do with her.

Understandably so. Constance hadn't exactly been Mother of the Year… ever. The only Langdon child who hadn't been aware of that had been Beau. Tate knew it. Addie had known it. Isabel knew it.

Constance cast a look of longing at Isabel. "You know where I am if you need me," she said quietly, and then left, the door slamming shut behind her.

A very tiny part of Isabel wanted to go after Constance. A tiny part of her wanted to run after Mommy and hug her close. An even bigger part of her told her to just let Constance walk away. That was just what she did.

Isabel left the kitchen and went into the living room. It was so eerie, seeing everything looking exactly how she remembered it. It didn't feel right. Derek was dead, yet everything looked the same as when he had been alive. It felt almost as if he would just walk right in through the door like it was a normal day.

But it wasn't a normal day, especially for the Murder House. It was Halloween. The one day that Isabel needed company (from someone other than the Montgomerys and her mother) and no one was around.

This unsettling, disturbing feeling settled within her: loneliness. Loneliness in a house that was the home to numerous ghosts.

"This sucks," Isabel muttered to herself.

"'""""'""""

A pizza box rested on the coffee table. It was open with four slices of a twelve-cut cheese pizza remaining untouched among discarded pizza crusts. The television was on, the sound nearly silent.  _Halloween_  played once again, restarting the marathon that Isabel had tuned in on earlier before she had fallen asleep, her stomach and mind full. Outside, dawn was not too far away from arriving.

Moira gave a soft, saddened smile at the pathetic sight of Isabel laying on the couch, sound asleep with a bit of drool pooling at the corner of her mouth. Moira walked over to the coffee table and closed the pizza box before grabbing the remote and shutting off the television.

When the television clicked off, Isabel stirred in her sleep and opened her eyes. She wiped away the bit of drool that glistened on her skin as she sat up. "Moira?"

She remembered the redheaded maid very well, having met and befriended Moira as soon as they met. Her father saw Moira as an older woman and not the young seductress that plenty of others had seen her as. She never had a reason to dislike Moira or distrust her and Isabel was very glad that it was her she was looking at right now.

Moira sat down on the couch beside Isabel, seeing the tears made Isabel's cairngorm gem eyes shimmer; the same eyes as her mother. She took Isabel's hand and her fingers gently brushed along the scar that was left by Thaddeus biting Isabel four years ago.

"Welcome home, Izzy."


	4. Chapter Three

_Los Angeles, 2003_

"Finally," Isabel breathed when her father pulled the car up to the Hotel Cortez. The neon sign for the hotel was lit up brightly. It seemed more foreboding than welcoming, but it wasn't anything that Isabel wasn't used to. A lot of the places she and her father visited had creepy vibes to them.

They had been driving for what felt like days. Actually, it probably had been days. They had traveled to LA so that Derek could do research on the Blood and Crips feud. Honestly it wasn't really something that interested eight-year-old Isabel.

"Wanna go check us in while I find a place to park?" Derek asked his adopted daughter.

The little girl said, "Sure thing!" and got out of the car. She grabbed her Polaroid camera (a gift for her birthday last year), slipped the strap around her neck, and hopped out of the backseat. As Derek pulled away from the curb, Isabel headed inside.

The interior of the hotel was grand and had an old timey feel with a modern twist. "Art deco… cool," Isabel remarked to herself. She was pretty sure that was what this design style was called. Looking up at the ceiling for a brief moment had her in awe. It was so tall, making her feel rather insignificant.

Iris was sitting at the front desk, flipping through a magazine. She looked up when she heard footsteps approaching and saw a little girl who couldn't have been more than eight or nine coming towards her. She frowned faintly, not accustomed to seeing someone so young coming into the hotel unaccompanied. "Are you lost or something?"

"My dad is outside parking the car," Isabel answered matter-of-factly. She was used to being looked at in such a way. This was routine: Dad parking the car while she checked in and the staff looking at her funny until she explained the situation. "Noble, checking in."

Oh yes, Noble. Iris knew the name. Derek Noble, the famous author checking into the Hotel Cortez. Perhaps this could finally bring in some good business.

"Of course. You two will be in room twenty-five." Iris grabbed the two keys and handed them to Isabel. "One for you and one for your father."

"Thanks." Isabel then turned away from the front desk and held her Polaroid camera up to her face. She took a picture of the lobby, the camera spitting out the photo seconds after it being taken. Isabel took hold of the photo, letting the camera hang around her neck by the strap, and watched it develop right before her very eyes.

When it did, Derek walked into the lobby, carrying his suitcase. "Got the keys?" Isabel tossed one of the room keys to him in response. He grinned. "Alright Iz, go grab your luggage from the car. I'll meet you in the room."

So Isabel did just that. She went out to the car and grabbed her suitcase. As she walked back inside, she nearly ran into someone. "Sorry," she apologized.

Sally looked down at the little girl, holding a cigarette between her fingers. "It's okay. Just be more careful next time, kid."

""''""""'""""

_Murder House, 2015_

Tentatively, Isabel walked into her father's study. Nothing had been touched, almost like he was still alive, about to return to his work any second.

Isabel felt her eyes get watery and she did her best to blink away the tears. She walked up to the desk and looked at the papers strewn across the surface. It made her smile sadly. Her father never was the organized type.

She sifted through the papers. Rough drafts, fan mail, bills; the works. Among the papers, she noticed something that didn't quite belong. Isabel took hold of a corner of a smaller item and pulled it out from beneath the other papers.

It was a photograph she had taken what must have been twelve or so years ago. It was a Polaroid that captured the image of a lobby from the Hotel Cortez. Isabel remembered visiting there a while ago. She couldn't believe that her father had kept the photo; she thought it had gotten thrown out.

Beneath the photograph was a sheet of paper that was covered with scribbles. Isabel put down the photo and picked up the paper instead. She saw that the scribbles were quick notes that had been written down by Derek. It was titled "Hotel Cortez" and it had the address as well as a few names and events that had happened there. As Isabel tried reading her father's writing, she realized that this wasn't just a little information about the hotel.

It was the outline to a new book.

Her father had been planning to write about the Hotel Cortez. He died before getting the chance though.

There was a little knock on the door. Isabel looked up to see Moira holding a teacup. "Chamomile," she announced, stepping into the study. "Your mother and I don't agree on a lot of things. But she's definitely right about one thing: chamomile soothes the soul."

"Thanks, Moira," said Isabel with a weak smile. She took the teacup and sipped. The tea was made exactly how she liked it. "Hey, quick question: was my dad planning to write about the Hotel Cortez?"

The redheaded maid thought for a moment. "I do believe he spoke about taking a trip there. Why do you ask?"

So, her father had wanted to write a new book about the Hotel Cortez. He had planned to stay there to write about it and interview the staff. It probably would have become the next best seller for him. But Derek Noble never got the chance.

Isabel did have that chance. She had the chance to go to the hotel, to finish her father's incomplete work, to put the Noble name on one more book; to do what Derek Noble wanted. She had the chance to do something with her own life.

She kept her eyes focused on the picture she had taken as a child and then slowly looked up to meet the maid's eyes. "Moira, I'm going on a little trip."

"''"""'"""""'

A black 1964 Impala pulled up to the Hotel Cortez. It hardly looked different except for clearly being aged ten or so years. Isabel parked her car and got out, grabbing her suitcase and messenger bag that held her writing material, and heading inside.

When she walked inside, Isabel nearly ran into someone. "Sorry," she apologized.

Sally looked at Isabel with raised eyebrows. Surely this couldn't be that same little girl that she had met years before? It had to be. Sally never forgot a face, no matter how much they changed. "It's okay. Just be more careful next time, kid." Would this girl recognize her?

She did. Isabel recognized Sally for she hadn't changed at all, which did strike Isabel as a little odd. Sally's face and fashion had remained exactly the same, as if she was frozen in time. Isabel was instantly reminded of the Murder House, but within that very moment, it didn't occur to her that Sally might be a ghost as well.

She didn't let on that she recognized Sally. Not yet, anyway. She just moved past her and walked towards the front desk.

The hotel hadn't changed on the inside. The art deco design had remained the same; the lobby looked just like it had when she took that picture with her Polaroid camera.

Iris appeared to be a little surprised as well when Isabel approached the desk like she had done years ago. She recognized the author's daughter; it wasn't hard when she had been a fan of Derek Noble's books. Still, she kept a sense of formality and said, "Name, please."

"Noble, checking in."


	5. Chapter Four

"Room Sixty-Three," Iris announced as she brought Isabel to the hotel room. She handed over the key.

Room 63? That wasn't the room Isabel had asked for when she made the reservation. "Sorry, but what about Room Sixty-Four?" That was the room she had requested.

Iris gave a tightlipped smile. "I'm sorry, but that room is taken." For the past five years it had been occupied on and off by none other than Detective John Lowe and right now, it was occupied. "I'm sure you'll like Room Sixty-Three just as much."

Isabel knew she wouldn't. She had wanted Room 64 for a very specific reason: it had once been the office of James Patrick March: a wicked man who had committed horrific acts. He had been the one that her father had intended to write about. He was the one Isabel intended to write about. Isabel was disappointed by the change in rooms, but she concealed that disappointment and instead just said, "Oh."

Using the key Iris handed to her, Isabel unlocked the door to Room 63. It swung open and Iris was about to walk away, but Isabel stopped her. "Question: what's the Wi-Fi password?"

Iris wanted to roll her eyes. What was it with these modern people and their constant need for internet? "There isn't any, the hotel is a dead spot." Iris resisted laughing at her own little twisted joke.

Again, more disappointment. Isabel had hoped to use the internet for some research, but it seemed she would have to just go to the local coffee shop to use their Wi-Fi instead. "That's going to make binge-watching Netflix a little difficult, huh?" Isabel joked.

When Iris only gave her an unamused look, Isabel's small smile faded and she cleared her throat. "Right… thanks." She stepped into the room as Iris walked away. "Note to self: humor isn't appreciated," Isabel muttered, shutting the door behind her.

It wasn't a grand room. It wasn't anything to be in awe about. It was a typical, outdated hotel room. It was good enough, and that was what mattered.

Isabel set her suitcase down and slid her messenger bag off of her shoulder. She sat on her bed and pulled her laptop out of her messenger bag and just set it aside; she had no use for it at the moment. She also pulled out her notebook and a pen.

The lack of Wi-Fi might be a blessing in disguise, she thought to herself. It would force her away from distractions and give her the chance to actually get up and interview hotel employees.

As soon as she opened her notebook to start jotting down a few observances she had already made, there was a knock on the door. Isabel set aside the notebook and got off of the bed, going to answer the door.

"Fresh towels for you, Miss," said the maid, holding out two folded large towels and one folded hand towel to Isabel.

Isabel blinked a few times, instantly reminded of Moira from home. Wait, she knew this woman… what was her name again? Oh, it was on the tip of her tongue! "Miss Evers," Isabel said suddenly. "Your name is Miss Evers, right?"

Surprised at being addressed so suddenly, Hazel Evers took a few moments to answer. "Yes Miss, it is. Your towels."

"Thanks," Isabel said, taking the stack of towels in hand.

Miss Evers turned to leave, but before she walked away, she paused a moment. Without even turning around, she said, "Welcome back, Miss Noble," and then was gone.

"'""""'""""'''"

_2003_

She was so bored. Her father had left to go and conduct some interviews for his research. Not wanting to expose her to gang members, Derek had left Isabel at the hotel to entertain herself. She stood in the lobby now, just looking around, unsure of what to do.

"It's like  _The Shining_ ," she muttered to herself. She had taken the book from her father's shelf and while she hadn't understood the whole story (and skipped a few parts) she knew enough about it to be able to make the comparison between the Hotel Cortez and the Overlook described in Stephen King's horror novel.

Isabel looked over at the front desk. There was Iris, not paying attention. She didn't particularly like that woman so she didn't dare go over and try to make conversation. Iris came off as very bitter and Isabel had learned from experience to not bother bitter people.

Instead, she walked over to the elevators and went up to a random floor to roam the halls.

The Hotel Cortez was eerily silent. It was unnerving, but not enough to hinder Isabel's little journey. She wandered aimlessly like a ghost trapped on Earth until she came upon a hotel room that had the door opened.

She peeked inside and at first didn't see anything. Isabel had been about to walk away when she suddenly heard someone mutter, "Oh such a stubborn stain."

Curious, Isabel walked into the room. The bathroom light was on, so she poked her head inside to see what was going on. A maid was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, scrubbing linens. Isabel could see the faded bloodstains on the otherwise white sheets.

"What happened?" she asked, making her presence known.

Miss Evers looked over to the little girl with raised eyebrows, not having expected any sort of company. "A little accident." It wasn't far from the truth. "But nothing I can't take care of. There's no stain I can't get rid of," Miss Evers boasted. She then did a double take, as if just noticing that Isabel was only a child. "And just where are your parents? You oughtn't to be alone."

"My dad went out to do some work," Isabel answered idly, not knowing that Miss Evers' concern came from a horrific experience of losing her son because of lack of supervision. "Don't know when he'll be back."

"Then your mother should be keeping you by her side."

"Don't have one." Isabel said this with ease. It was a fact of life that she had grown used to. It didn't bother her. She knew she was adopted. That was fine. Her adoptive father was someone who wanted her and loved her. Had Mother's Day always been difficult at school? Surprisingly no for all of her teachers were aware that she didn't have a mother so they would just have her do something else while the other kids made cards for their mothers.

Pain shot through Miss Evers' non-beating heart. No mother and a father who failed to keep an eye on her. How awful! "Well, you are to stay with me until your father returns." Maybe for once she could get it right. She could care for a child and make sure nothing bad happened. Maybe for once she wouldn't fail.

It didn't seem like a big deal to Isabel. Yes, she had been taught about stranger danger. But this woman honestly seemed harmless (despite the whole cleaning blood from linens) and she worked at the hotel. What could go wrong? So, Isabel shrugged. "Fine by me." Maybe she would actually have something to do now, even if it was just watching a maid clean stains.

Miss Evers stood and smoothed out her white apron. "Now, tell me your name."

"Izzy Noble," Isabel answered.

"Well, Miss Noble, you may call me Miss Evers."


	6. Chapter Five

Isabel had every intention of starting her work right away… after a drink. Her father had a few rituals when he did his work to ensure a successful novel (he was a rather superstitious man). One such ritual was a martini before starting the entire process. So after grabbing her wallet, Isabel left the hotel room and found the bar.

It was empty except for one person: the bartender. Isabel had no trouble recalling the bartender's name. Liz Taylor was not someone easily forgotten.

Liz looked up from the glass she was cleaning and zeroed in on Isabel. The Noble kid from twelve years ago… Liz remembered her very well. There was a hardly a child who came into the Hotel Cortez who also came out. The Countess had a weird thing for children and would always take those who didn't belong to her. Isabel had been one to walk away. She was one of the lucky few.

"Finally old enough for that gin and tonic?" Liz asked rhetorically with a little smirk.

"""'"""""""'""""

_2003_

Isabel sat on the barstool next to her father. Liz supposed she shouldn't allow children to sit at the bar. But what was the harm? No one else was around. Liz placed a martini in front of Derek and then got to work on the Sprite and cranberry juice cocktail for the girl.

"Sure you wouldn't prefer a gin and tonic?" Liz asked Isabel, teasing her.

She scrunched her nose. "Tonic sounds gross." Isabel looked to her father. "Would I like a gin and tonic?" This earned a "ha" from Derek and a smirk of approval from Liz.

"Maybe you will when you're older, but I promise you that right now you won't like it." Derek knew better than to tell Isabel that she couldn't have it. Saying she couldn't have it would just make her ask for it more persistently.

"Tell you what," started Liz as she pushed the virgin cocktail towards Isabel. "Come back in twelve years or so and I'll make you that gin and tonic, and you can tell me if you like it or not."

Isabel beamed, glad to be considered. "Okay!"

"''"""""'""""'""""

_2015_

"Finally old enough for that gin and tonic?" Liz asked rhetorically with a little smirk.

"One more week," Isabel answered, taking a seat at a barstool. "But… I won't tell if you won't."

Catching her drift, Liz got to work with making the gin and tonic. "When I told you to come back in twelve years, I didn't think you'd actually come through," she admitted. "Where's Daddy Dearest?"

"Dead," Isabel answered bluntly. "Well, the adoptive one is." The man she had considered her real father was now dead and gone. An accident on a road that should have been avoided, and not in the Murder House, which meant he truly was gone.

Liz did not show any real remorse and simply asked, "And the real one?"

Isabel shrugged. "No idea." She had met him once, not realizing it was him, and she still didn't know that they had spoken. It was as if he didn't exist beyond the stage of person-she-vaguely-knew.

The gin and tonic was slid across the counter to Isabel. She took a sip and grimaced slightly at the taste. Yet she kept drinking. In fact, she downed the entire drink in seconds. Immediately, Liz began making a second drink for Isabel. Seeing that, Isabel said, "I'm good with just the one."

"Trust me, sweetie. You need this second drink." And Liz went back to making the drink. She handed the glass to Isabel, who accepted it without further protest. This time, Isabel drank it slowly. "Now, what brings you back to the hotel?"

"Business."

Liz scoffed at this. "Honey, no one comes here for just business anymore unless it's 'business.'"

"Well, believe it or not, I actually am here for real business." Liz looked at her expectantly. She continued, "I'm writing a book. Gonna be a best-seller."

"Oh is that so?"

"Well… maybe. It's what I'm hoping for anyway." She tipped the glass against her lip, sipping more of her second drink. "I guess that remains to be seen. I mean, my dad was good at writing best-sellers, so I can't be too terrible."

It was a logical way of thinking about it, Liz would give her credit for that. She poured herself a drink and raised it. "Then here's to a successful first book and many more to come."

They clinked glasses.

"'''"""""""""

Isabel stared at her laptop screen. The blinking cursor on the blank word document seemed to be mocking her. "Oh screw it," Isabel finally said, shutting her laptop and setting it on the nightstand.

Writing was a hell of a lot harder than she thought. Shouldn't it come naturally to her? She had grown up with an author in the house for Christ's sake!

Annoyed that so far, the writing process wasn't going well, Isabel took a cigarette from the carton in her messenger bag and put it between her lips. She started searching for her lighter when she heard the click of one.

Looking up, she first saw the flame from the lighter, then the hand holding the lighter. Her eyes trailed up along an arm and then came to rest on a face that she had seen both earlier and years ago.

Stunned, Isabel took the cigarette out of her mouth. "How did you get in here?" she asked.

Sally smirked, still holding out the lighter, the flame flickering. "Long story. You want a light or not?"


	7. Chapter Six

Isabel put the cigarette back between her lips and leaned forward slightly so that Sally could light the end. The whole time, Isabel kept her eyes on Sally, studying her appearance. Messy makeup, fresh tears, 90s style; exactly how Isabel remembered her from years ago.

"You've changed," Sally remarked, putting away her lighter as she watched Isabel smoke like a pro.

"You haven't," Isabel replied. "And I have a pretty good feeling that I know why."

Sally smirked, amused by Isabel. "Well, that certainly saves me giving you an explanation," which was a relief; the last thing Sally wanted was this girl freaking out on her. That would kind of ruin her intentions. "So why are you back in this dump?"

"Unfinished business. Which is why you're stuck here, am I right? Unfinished business?"

Sally put a finger to the tip of Isabel's nose, saying, "Right on the nose, kid. What are you, some sort of paranormal detective?"

Isabel scrunched up her nose when Sally touched it. "Crime novelist, actually. Aspiring."

Sally gave a dry laugh. "Well, this is certainly the right place to come to for a crime novel. You just have to be careful that you don't get caught up in it yourself." That was always tricky. There were those who would claim for years that they would never do bad things. Sally would willingly bet money that Isabel used to swear that she would never touch a cigarette. Yet here she was: smoking away.

"So, which crime were you planning on writing about?" Sally asked. There were certainly plenty to choose from. Many different crimes over the decades, nearly a century. Hell, maybe her murder would make it into the book! It sure as hell deserved to be, in Sally's humble opinion.

"James March," Isabel answered. "I know this sounds crazy, but I feel like there's a connection between him and this new Ten Commandments Killer, like he― or she, I guess― is a James March copycat. He had started killings based on the Ten Commandments but died before completing his work."

Isabel honestly felt like she was pushing it with that theory. After all, James had committed plenty of other murders not based on the commandments at all (some rumors even said that James sealed women within the walls of the hotel). But Sally knew how right Isabel was. And it was then that Sally knew Isabel would definitely be the perfect choice to trade places with John. Isabel could carry out James' work and that would make John free to die in the hotel, where Sally could be with him forever without worry.

It was just a matter of getting James to agree.

"'''"""''"""""""

"No," James March said sharply.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Sally snapped.

"My dear Sally, I had hoped you were smart enough to understand what 'no' means," James replied, being an asshole on purpose. Sally glared at him and he went on to explain his reason for immediately turning down her offer for an exchange. "She isn't what I need. She's nothing more than an author's daughter. No access to crime scene evidence, police files; John is who I need."

"But  _I_  need John," Sally exclaimed, her eyes welling with fresh tears. "I need him." The words came out choked, sobs overwhelming her. Her dark painted lips quivered.

James was unfazed by her emotional outburst, having grown quite accustomed to them over the years. "Not like I need him." James was using John for a cause far greater than desire that needed satisfying. He was using John to make the world a better place; a noble cause. Sally's need for John was just selfishness. "If you're so desperate for a companion, then you can use the girl." And that would leave John all for himself.

In truth, Sally had considered it. And why had she considered it? Because Isabel had come back. Only two people had ever come back: John and Isabel. But she wasn't going to just easily give in to what James wanted. And she couldn't just abandon her love for John. So, Sally scoffed. "I don't go for just anyone. Not everyone is like your wife."

At those words, James' expression hardened, his eyes narrowing on Sally. "You will watch your tongue," he warned her in a threatening tone.

"Or what?" Sally challenged. She put her hands on her hips, straightening up.

"Or I'll call off our agreement."

As soon as James said those dreaded words, the emaciated, faceless addiction demon appeared behind Sally. She tensed and fear (a feeling she sometimes forgot about) shot down her spine, making her stiff.

"Are we clear?" James asked.

All Sally could manage to do was a single nod, and the demon behind her vanished. James did as well, leaving Sally alone in the hallway outside of Room 64.

"''"""''"""""'""""'"

Isabel had difficulty sleeping. She thought she would be used to staying in creepy places. But there was just something so terribly off-putting about the Hotel Cortez.

Blindly reaching over to the nightstand, Isabel grabbed her glasses and put them on, not that it helped much to see for she was in the dark. She reached over, feeling along the nightstand until her hand hit the lamp. She felt the base until she touched the switch. When the light clicked on, Isabel squinted because of the sudden brightness in the room.

It was well past midnight. A restless night was the perfect setting for her muse to come alive and eat away at her. Oh why must the muse be so bloodthirsty? It was like a goddamn vampire!

Grabbing her notebook after slipping on a pair of flip-flops, Isabel left her hotel room, still dressed in her pajamas.

Thankfully, the hotel lobby was empty. Not a soul was in sight, leaving Isabel at peace to do her work. She plopped down in a chair and opened up her notebook, turning to a fresh page.

She didn't even realize she had fallen asleep until she jolted awake. Isabel quickly wiped a bit of dried spittle from the corner of her mouth and looked up at an elegant figure who was standing before her.

"You know," Elizabeth drawled, "most guests prefer to sleep in their rooms."


	8. Chapter Seven

Isabel was stunned for a moment. She had trouble forming words, completely taken aback by the presence of this stunning (albeit intimidating) woman. She was quite a sight to see, and Isabel felt so small.

The Countess raised an eyebrow, waiting for a reply from the young woman. It became clear that she wasn't going to get one, and that was rather pleasing. She very much enjoyed having that effect on people. "Do you not find your room suitable enough to stay in?"

At that question, Isabel seemed to snap out of her slightly dazed state. "Oh no, it isn't that," she said quickly. "I came out here last night do some writing—"

"Oh yes, you're Miss Noble, aren't you? The author's daughter. I'm so sorry for your loss," said the Countess without any real sympathy, which didn't go unnoticed by Isabel, though she was honestly used to it by now. "I had read some of his books. Fascinating content."

Isabel nodded a few times. There was a pause and then she asked, "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"My name is Elizabeth; I'm the owner of this hotel."

Immediately, Isabel felt her cheeks color. "Christ, I'm sorry! I didn't realize―"

"That's quite alright, Miss Noble," Elizabeth interrupted. "Why don't you come and join me in my penthouse for breakfast? I would love to get to know you better." Isabel looked as healthy as she had years ago, and Elizabeth saw no reason why she wouldn't taste as good as she looked.

The offer certainly wasn't one Isabel wanted to pass up. It was a chance to talk to the owner and get some great information. Isabel glanced down at herself. "Um, I'm still in my pajamas."

Elizabeth gave an amused little laugh. "That's just fine," she assured Isabel. "It'll be a casual get-together."

Isabel quickly learned that Elizabeth's definition of "casual" was very different from her own.

The penthouse was incredibly luxurious, which didn't exactly surprise Isabel. She was left in the main room while Elizabeth went to change in what she claimed to be something more comfortable. Isabel raised her eyebrows as she saw the neon sign that read "Why aren't we having sex right now?"

Miss Evers walked into the room with a tea tray and set the tray down on the coffee table. She gave Isabel a little nod in acknowledgement, but said nothing and left.

Elizabeth returned, wearing the "something more comfortable" which turned out to be a crème colored silk robe with jewel encrusted lapels and cuffs. No doubt the sapphires, rubies, and emeralds that adorned the robe were real. Isabel shifted where she stood, clearly feeling very out of place.

Whether Elizabeth didn't actually notice or chose to simply ignore her discomfort, Isabel wasn't sure. The Countess gestured to the couch and Isabel sat down.

"So, tell me about yourself. I feel as if I know so much about your father because of the hardly media while hardly knowing anything about you." As Elizabeth spoke, she poured two cups of tea from the pot that Miss Evers had brought in.

While Elizabeth handed Isabel a cup of tea, she sat beside the aspiring author, and Isabel spoke. "Um, not much to tell. Wherever my dad went, I went, so a lot of what the media covered about what was going on with him, was going on with me, too."

Isabel realized that the Countess made her rather nervous. Elizabeth seemed to just bleed out elegance and grace through her pores. Meanwhile, Isabel was just… there.

After adding a bit of milk to her tea, Isabel took a sip, noticing that Elizabeth wasn't drinking. However, she saw no reason to point it out.

"Then tell me something unique about you." Elizabeth tilted her head to the side slightly. "Tell me why you're here at the Cortez."

"I'm um, well I'm trying to write a book," Isabel answered.

That response seemed to genuinely excite Elizabeth. "Oh a book, how wonderful. Isn't that fabulous, darling?"

Elizabeth turned her head to look at a young man, whom Isabel hadn't noticed before.

Tristan Duffy strode further into the room, shirtless and confident. "Yeah, real cool," he said with a half-smile that Isabel realized was probably forced. In truth, he was actually interested. Most people brushed him off as a stupid model. But he knew of Derek Noble's work and was intrigued by what the next generation might provide to the literary world. But the Countess wanted him there for other reasons, not for book talk.

He sat down on the couch on the other side of Isabel. He sat close, invading Isabel's personal space. She pretended not to notice, keeping her attention on Elizabeth, which was not difficult to do for the woman was so captivating.

"Where else have your travels taken brought you?" Elizabeth asked, as if sincerely interested in what Isabel had done with her life. And maybe she truly was; Isabel couldn't be sure "Have you been anywhere exotic?"

"Um, not really. I mean, my dad only wrote about American crimes."

"Oh yes, of course." Elizabeth set down her cup of tea, not having ever taken a sip.

Isabel stiffened when she felt Tristan begin to play with her hair. Elizabeth watched and smirked. "It seems Tristan's more in the mood for playing than talking." She took Isabel's teacup out of her hands and set it down. "What about you?" The Countess tilted her head to the side. "Feel up to playing?"

She could hear Isabel's heart thudding in her chest and blood pounding in her veins. The Countess trailed her hand along Isabel's jawline. She had first laid eyes upon Isabel when she had been nine; young and without a mother. Elizabeth had wanted her; had wanted to take care of her. But Isabel had gotten away. And now Elizabeth wanted to take care of her in a much different manner.

Isabel stood up abruptly, feeling extremely uncomfortable. "I should get back to my work," she said hurriedly. "Thanks for the tea; it was nice meeting you."

It was as if Isabel couldn't get out of there fast enough. She was picking up on really bad vibes about the situation. Something just wasn't right about it.

The Countess and Tristan exchanged looks. "Soon," Elizabeth promised. "We'll eat soon enough."

When Isabel got off of the elevator, she nearly ran into someone.

"Oh Jesus, sorry," Isabel apologized quickly.

John Lowe hardly seemed fazed. In fact, he seemed more tired than anything. "That's alright," he muttered, as if distracted.

That was how he spent most of his time now: being distracted. He couldn't help but feel like he was always missing something; it was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, constantly tugging at his thoughts but never fully revealing itself.

"Chase down a Red Bull with a cup of black coffee," Isabel said, seemingly out of the blue.

The elevator doors nearly shut; John stuck out his arm to keep them from closing. "What was that?"

"Drink a Red Bull and then drink a cup of black coffee," she repeated. "It's what I do when I need to wake up and it definitely looks like something you should try."

"That sounds like it might kill me instead of waking me up."

Isabel shrugged. "Maybe."

The elevator doors shut then, and Isabel went to her room. She needed a cold shower.


	9. Chapter Eight

A pen tapped on a blank page in a notebook incessantly.

"You know, that gets really annoying really fast," Liz commented, drawing out the word "really" each time she said it.

Isabel looked up from her notebook and gave an apologetic look. "Sorry," she said, opting to just set her pen down.

"Writer's block?"

"More of a fear of failure." Derek Noble had such a way with words and Isabel had grown hesitant, worried she wouldn't be good enough, even though this was only the first draft. "Writing came so easily to my dad. He could just sit in his study for hours, typing away at his computer."

"And probably got carpal tunnel because of it," Liz pointed out. "Sure you don't want something than that soda?"

Isabel glanced to her half empty glass of soda. "Yeah, I'm good."

"What a boring way to be spending a Friday night." Isabel turned her head to see Sally approaching the bar. Not surprisingly, a cigarette was held between two of Sally's fingers, her eyes glistening with fresh tears about to spill down her cheeks.

"Not spending time with your boy-toy? What a boring way to spend a Friday night," Liz remarked mockingly as she started preparing a drink for Sally.

This earned her a glare from Sally as she sat down on the barstool next to Isabel. "He's out for the night. But he'll come back. He always does," she murmured. Only two people in her life had come back: John Lowe and the young woman next to her. Sally looked over at Isabel. She didn't feel as drawn to Isabel as she did to John. But she was lonely and Isabel was there… "Planning to work all night? Because you sure as hell look like you could use a break?"

Isabel gave a breathy laugh. "How can I take a break when I haven't done anything today?"

As if she didn't believe Isabel, Sally grabbed the notebook and looked at the blank page. "And how long have you been working for?"

"Dunno, a few hours now?"

Sally took her cigarette and placed it in the ashtray that rested on the bar as Liz slid a drink towards her. "I rest my case. You need a break," she said with a tone of finality. Sally downed the vodka tonic Liz had given her. "The writing process can be a real motherfucker. Trust me, I know." Having been a songwriter, Sally was familiar with that devilish writer's block. It could be an aspiring author's worst nightmare. "A trip to your hotel bed could be just what you need."

Actually, a trip to bed didn't sound half bad, but not for what Sally wanted. Isabel was thinking more along the lines of the nap. Her brain needed a major rest.

Sally's fingers began trailing along her arm, making her skin tingle. Isabel wasn't sure if she liked the contact. So, Isabel pulled away; she had been reminded of what had happened with Elizabeth and that guy, Tristan.

"Sorry," Isabel said quickly, standing up from the barstool. She could see the hurt in Sally's eyes. "I'm just… I don't really know how to feel about this and I'd rather be absolutely sure."

Sally rolled her eyes. "Spare me the bullshit," she muttered, lighting up another cigarette.

At a loss for words, Isabel collected her notebook and pen, and walked away from the bar, heading towards the elevator. When the doors opened, Isabel came face-to-face with someone she never thought she'd meet.

James March gave Isabel a smile. "Going up?"

"''""'"""'"'""

Isabel was in shock. She was riding up the elevator with none other than James P. March, infamous serial killer. She felt a mixture of both excitement and fear. This was the man she intended to write about; this was the murderer she wanted to research.

"I do hate silent elevator rides," James remarked. "They also feel so stiff, wouldn't you agree?" He looked to Isabel and noted the uneasiness that she was attempting to conceal.

"Um, yeah." Isabel mentally scolded herself. She knew she wasn't doing a good job of hiding her discomfort. She tried forcing herself to relax. Ghosts were nothing new to her; it was the fact that this man was able to slaughter her right where she stood without hesitation. However, he was a primary source of information, and Isabel could practically hear her father telling her to take this opportunity.

"Though, it's kinda difficult to have a conversation with a stranger."

"How very right you are, my dear." James held out his hand to Isabel. "March is the name. James Patrick March, and I once owned this fine establishment."

"I'm Isabel Noble," she introduced herself, her heart racing with nervousness as she shook hands with this despicable monster, who, at the same time, was a respectable man. It was a mind bending combination for one person.

"A lovely name for a lovely woman, how fitting." James studied Isabel and had to admit that she was fascinating to look at; a certain simply beauty that she did not try to hide but did not draw attention to either.

Isabel forced herself to give a kind, shy smile. "Thanks. I should warn you to be careful with your compliments. How can you know that I'm lovely without getting to know me better?"

Part of Isabel's mind was screaming:  _what the hell are you doing?_  The other part of her mind knew exactly what she was doing. Isabel needed an interview with James March if her book was going to be any good, and she was going to get this interview no matter what.

James smirked faintly. "Once again declaring the truth, Miss Noble. Will you allow me the chance to get to know you better so that I may draw proper conclusions?"

Isabel's fake shy smile became more prominent and real. "I'd like that very much."

"""'""""""""'""

Holy shit, she had a dinner date with James Patrick March! Well, an interview, though she made sure that James thought it was a dinner date.

Isabel was back in her room, pacing nervously while wringing her hands. It was such a risk, but this was going to be one hell of a book if she lived through this interview. What was the likelihood of that?

She stopped pacing when she heard her phone start ringing, which was a little surprising seeing as the hotel didn't have a lot of service (she had managed to find the one spot that gave her a few bars). Isabel picked it up from the bedside table, careful not to move so she wouldn't lose the cell service, and looked to see who was calling.

It was her mother.

Isabel bit her lower lip as she stared at the screen of her phone. Should she answer it? She had plenty of reason not to, mainly that she was still pissed at her. But how long was that going to last? Isabel had been bitter towards her mother for about four years now; a hell of a grudge.

Finally making up her mind, Isabel decided to answer. She put the phone to her ear. "Hey."

"Isabel? It's Constance, sweetheart."

"I know… caller ID," Isabel reminded Constance. Her mother didn't have a cellphone, nor did she have caller ID on her landline; a woman stuck in the past.

"Oh yes, right." There was a long pause with Isabel waiting for Constance to continue and Constance not really sure of what to say next. "You know, you could have told me you were taking a vacation. I had to find out from Moira that you were gone."

Isabel wanted to roll her eyes. "It's not a vacation. I'm at the Hotel Cortez to work on a book."

Constance raised her eyebrows. The Hotel Cortez? That wasn't too far away. "How exciting. What's the book going to be about?" she asked, leaning against her kitchen counter.

A quiet sigh slipped past Isabel's lips. Constance was trying to be a mother to her, and she was trying to be supportive, Isabel could see that. And truly, she appreciated that. All of her life, she had been without a mother. Derek had been all she thought she needed. He had been enough, but now she had something extra. It felt good, but Isabel was so stubborn. A four-year grudge was not going to go away at the drop of a hat.

"Look Constance…" Isabel had been about to say that she needed to go. But after glancing at the clock and pausing for a second in thought, she said, "The book is a little too complicated to talk about over the phone… maybe we ought to have like… lunch or something."

She could feel Constance's mood brighten. "That would be wonderful."

"Cool. I'll call you later to work out the details. I gotta go; I have a date to get ready for."

"A date? With whom?"

Isabel hung up before answering.


	10. Chapter Nine

To be perfectly honest, Isabel didn't know what she was doing. She was dolled up with a teal knee-length dress that had short sleeves. Her long brown hair fell past her shoulders in soft curls and she even put in her contacts.

Her stomach was twisting. What if she said something and he killed her? What if she didn't say anything and he killed her?

The book, she was doing this for the book. That thought kept Isabel motivated.

"Well, you certainly know how to clean up," Miss Evers remarked after letting Isabel into the room. Truthfully, she was jealous. However, her contempt towards the Countess was much stronger.

They were interrupted by James stepping onto the scene. He seemed very pleased with what he saw. "Miss Noble, you easily rival the prettiest blossom in springtime." Never as glamorous as his first wife; no one was. But flattery could get a man everywhere; a lesson he had learned long ago.

He made Isabel blush faintly, especially when he took her hand and kissed the back of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Miss Evers staring at the two of them with a mixture of hurt and sadness.

It was so unfair! She had served Mr. March for years. Suddenly this… this…  _child_  came along who had his attention.

"Come, let us sit! Miss Evers, pour us the champagne." James pulled out the chair beside his for Isabel.

As she sat down, Isabel said, "Champagne? Wow, that's rather fancy." She had expected a nice evening for he thought this was a dinner date (hence her nice attire) but to open a bottle of champagne?

"Only the best for a special occasion. I find making a new friend qualifies as a special occasion."

Miss Evers placed a glass of champagne in front of James and then Isabel. James raised his champagne flute and Isabel did the same. "A toast to a wonderful evening and new friends."

Their glasses clinked and each took a sip. Isabel set down her glass first and placed her hands in her lap. "Actually, Mr. March―"

"Now, I insist that you call me James," he interrupted.

There was a long pause and Isabel raised her eyebrows. Slowly, she said, "Right… James… I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"No," James said abruptly, setting down his champagne flute. "This is an evening of getting better acquainted, not an evening for work."

Isabel wanted to point out that her asking questions was her getting to know him better. However, she didn't. Contradicting a murderer most likely would not work out in her favor. "Okay… then what would you like to talk about if not ourselves?" she asked with a tilt of her head to the side, choosing her words carefully.

"Oh, I don't mind at all if we talk about ourselves." This confused Isabel. Hadn't he just said…? "On the contrary, I would very much like to hear about you as I'm sure you would like to hear about me. I am, admittedly, a fascinating man. But this is pure conversation, not an interview for your book."

Isabel raised her eyebrows, surprised for a second and then that surprise faded. He was a ghost who wandered the halls of the hotel that he built. Hell, he had probably seen her when she had been little (which added a sense of weirdness to this), so naturally he'd know that she was writing a book despite her never having mentioned it to him before.

"How about a deal? You answer three of my questions for the book. Only three."

"And what do I get in return for answering only three of your questions?"

"What, an evening with me isn't enough?" Isabel joked, hoping it would be enough to help ease the tension she still felt; that slight fear that one wrong move may be her last. "I'll ask you three questions and you can ask me anything you want."

Thankfully, James found her little joke to be rather amusing. He smirked. "Then we have a deal. Ask away."

""'"""'''"""

It was incredibly late when Isabel returned to her hotel room. She unlocked the door and when it swung open, she saw Sally sitting on her bed, smoking a cigarette.

"Is there even a point to locking my door?" Isabel asked as she nudged the door shut with her foot.

"So how did the date go?" Sally questioned as Isabel kicked off her shoes and sat down on the bed beside her, a hint of mocking in her voice.

"It wasn't a date, it was an interview."

Sally thought that was bullshit and rolled her eyes. "Contacts instead of glasses, nice dress, and―" Sally leaned close to the crook of Isabel's neck and inhaled deeply― "perfume. It was a date."

"Was not!"

"Fine, fine, whatever you say…" Sally took a drag from her cigarette after she drew away from Isabel.

As she did so, Isabel stood up from the bed and walked over to the mirror. She took out her contacts and put her glasses on. She felt absolutely exhausted from having to keep up a pleasant façade for James March. Now, she just had to hope he wouldn't come to her room tonight and hack her to bits.

She swept her hair to the side and made eye contact with Sally's reflection in the mirror. "Can you unzip me?"

Sally replied nonverbally, standing up from the bed and walking over to Isabel. She took hold of the zipper and slowly pulled it down. "Why aren't you afraid?"

That was an excellent question. Why was she not afraid? "Actually, I am," Isabel replied. "But this isn't totally new to me." Having lived in the old Victorian that had been dubbed the "Murder House" certainly helped her to gain some experience with a place like the Hotel Cortez.

"I meant me." This made Isabel turn around and look at Sally in surprise. "Why aren't you afraid of me?"

That was a question more excellent than what Isabel had originally interpreted because she had no response that could possibly be considered good enough.

Two elongated beats of silence passed before Isabel answered Sally's questions with one of her own. "I don't know. Should I be?" Did she have a reason to be afraid of Sally? Was this Sally subtly threatening her?

No. Isabel could see it in Sally's watery eyes. There was no threat, simply genuine curiosity.

With full honestly, Sally answered, "I don't know."

She stepped away from Isabel and stared at her for a moment. Isabel raised her eyebrows, looking at Sally expectantly. Was she going to say anything else? It didn't seem like it, so Isabel just slid off her dress and proceeded to put on comfortable clothes. After doing so, Isabel went over to the nightstand and opened the drawer. She retrieved her phone and opened the voice recording app to record the responses she had gotten from James.

She was sure to record everything before drifting off to sleep.

Sally was lying beside Isabel. She stared at the smoke that swirled through the air after she exhaled it. Sally looked over to the sleeping figure beside her. She barely remembered what it felt like to sleep. Even when she had been alive, she hadn't slept much. It was something she had taken for granted when her heart had been beating. Sally didn't really miss it. What she truly missed was the rush that a good dose of heroin gave her. It just wasn't the same anymore.

Isabel shifted slightly in her sleep. Sally sat up and stared down at her; the girl who came back. Taking the cigarette out of her mouth, Sally leaned down. She could still smell the faint spritz of Isabel's perfume.

"You're never going to leave me, are you?" Sally whispered into Isabel's ear.

Not fully awake and stuck inside a vague dream, Isabel murmured a groggy "no" and hugged her pillow closer to herself.

This made Sally grin as she lay back down on the bed, staring up the ceiling.


	11. Chapter Ten

Five chapters in one day. It was probably shit, but it was done. Isabel felt very accomplished. She felt that rush of making progress and the excitement of actually getting somewhere with this project she had taken on.

She wasn't ready to stop. To keep going though, she needed more information about the hotel itself, not just James, and she figured that a bit more intimate exploring of the hotel ought to help somewhat. Isabel saved her work once more and then closed her laptop. Leaving behind everything behind, Isabel walked out of the hotel room.

It was always so eerily silent in the halls of the Cortez, something Isabel would probably never get over.

"You aren't safe here, you know."

Isabel whirled around and saw Miss Evers standing in the hall. She raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean?" She sounded unsettled by Miss Evers' words. Why shouldn't she be? In her experience, maids were hardly ever wrong when it came to dire situations, and saying she wasn't safe certainly made this circumstance just that.

"Your blood is precious, and the Countess wants it," Miss Evers elaborated. "And she will drain you until not a single drop is left."

Her knowing tone definitely made Isabel worry. Clearly Miss Evers knew exactly what she was talking about.

"How do you know that?"

Miss Evers gave a little laugh. "Do you really think you're the first?" No, there had been plenty of others before Isabel.

It occurred to Isabel that maybe James March wasn't the one to interview, but the maid who knew all.

There was a long pause as Isabel tried making sense of exactly what Miss Evers was telling her. The Countess wanted her blood… "Is she the Ten Commandments Killer?" It made sense right? Elizabeth owned the hotel that once belonged to the original killer, and the original killer still walked these halls.

Miss Evers sighed quietly. Isabel was just not understanding. "Come with me."

She walked past Isabel, who followed her. So… was Elizabeth the Ten Commandments Killer? Isabel hadn't gotten her answer. She didn't ask again though, and just followed Miss Evers until they came to a stop in front of a hotel room.

From the pocket of her apron, Miss Evers removed a key, which she used to unlock the door. It slowly swung open, and Isabel could hear her heart beating wildly in her ears.

The room was dark. With the light from the hall illuminated a crib. The scar on Isabel's arm, which was in the shape of a bite mark, tingled; she was reminded of Thaddeus Montgomery, the Infantata that had attacked and bitten her four years ago at the Murder House.

Miss Evers gestured toward the crib, and Isabel cautiously stepped into the room. She paused a moment, taking a deep breath, and continued forward with tentative steps, approaching the crib. She peered down at the creature resting in the crib. She nearly screamed at what she saw, but her voice got caught in her throat. Eyes filled with fear, Isabel rushed back to Miss Evers.

"What is that thing?!" Isabel demanded once the hotel room door was shut.

"That's the Countess's child," Miss Evers answered with obvious disdain. "It seems only fitting that it came out as such a demon." Miss Evers took a moment to look around, making sure that no one else was around to overhear. She then leaned towards Isabel and dropped her voice down to a whisper. "She tried to have it aborted a century ago."

A century ago?! This demon child thing was a hundred years old? The Countess was over a hundred years old? It was becoming difficult to process all of this shocking information. Only one word was coming to Isabel's mind: vampire.

Oh great.

"Do you know where she went for the abortion?" Isabel asked, despite having a feeling that she already knew.

"I couldn't give you the address off the top of my head. But I'll never forget the name; they called him the doctor to the stars: Charles Montgomery.

""'""""'"""""

Isabel was in her room, packing up her messenger bag. She was going back home for a quick visit; she needed to have a talk with Charles Montgomery.

She saw a vague shape appear out of the corner of her eye and looked up to see Sally suddenly sitting in the chair by the window.

"You're leaving," Sally stated accusingly, not sounding happy at all about it.

Isabel resumed what she had been doing. "Yup," she replied idly.

"You'll come back to me, right?" She had to. She had come back before; she had to come back again!

The phrasing of the question didn't go amiss by Isabel. Sally hadn't asked if she was coming back. Sally had asked if she was coming back to  _her_. That worried Isabel. She never planned to stay at the Hotel Cortez forever; she was going to leave eventually and not come back. But the question was: would Sally let her?

"I'll be back later," Isabel answered, picking up her messenger bag, sliding the strap over her shoulder.

Sally visibly relaxed. "Good." And she said nothing more.

Isabel walked out of the room and out of the hotel. It was time to pay a visit to a familiar face.

"""'"""""""""

The click of the door unlocking was painfully familiar, whacking Isabel with a baseball bat made from nostalgia. She stepped through the doorway.

It had only been a few days since she arrived at the Hotel Cortez, yet it felt like it had been ages since she had last been here.

The place was spotless, as expected. Moira never let dust settle on any surface in the house if she could help it.

Not wasting any time, Isabel went down into the basement, knowing she would find Charles there.

Just as she had expected, he was at his work table, toying away on some dead animal.

"Charles," Isabel said to get his attention.

He turned to glance at her over his shoulder. "Ah, Miss Noble has returned to grace us with her presence again. How wonderful." His sarcasm didn't go unnoticed. "What brings you back here?"

"I have to ask you about a patient of yours."

"I've seen many patients in my lifetime, my dear."

"Not any quite like this one. Her name's Elizabeth. From what I understand, she had only been a few weeks along when she came to you, but it looked like she was in her third trimester."

Oh. That one.

Charles cleared his throat, standing up from his workbench. "Yes, her… It was just as you said: she claimed to only be a few weeks along but looked ready to give birth any second. However, I went forth with the operation. The baby was taken out of her."

"But it lived."

Slowly, Charles nodded. "Yes, it lived. It even attacked and killed my assistant. A damn shame that was; she had been the very best I worked with."

Jesus… Isabel was starting to see just how dire her situation was. The Countess, a possible vampire who had given birth to a killer monster baby, wanted her blood.

Unnerved now, Isabel thanked Charles and left him to his work, going back up the stairs.

She shut the basement door once she was back out into the hall, and immediately someone's arms wrapped around her in a bone crushing hug.

"Jesus H. Christ, you had me worried sick!" Constance exclaimed, continuing to deny Isabel freedom from her hold. "I've been calling and calling you and you never answered; I thought something happened!"

"Whoa, whoa, hold up." Isabel eased herself out of the hug. "I've only been gone like five days; I talked with you the other night."

Constance looked at her like she was absolute insane. "Isabel, sweetheart, you've been gone for six weeks."


	12. Chapter Eleven

Isabel was in absolute shock. She was sitting on the couch and Constance brought her a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkled on top. Isabel grasped the mug with both hands.

It was almost 2016; New Year's Eve was only a few days away. She was missing such a large chunk of time. Her birthday, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah… well, she didn't celebrate Hanukkah, but she had still missed it. It was so scary. Not Hanukkah, but the fact that she had spaced for six weeks. What had gone on during that time?

Constance sat down on the couch beside her. Clearly Isabel was very bothered by the lapse in time. She didn't know how to go about comforting her, though. She expected Isabel to push her away like she always did, which was why it came as such a surprise when Isabel rested her head against her shoulder. Smiling faintly to herself, Constance brought an arm around her shoulders. Isabel would have preferred the comfort of her brother, Tate, but he wasn't anywhere to be seen. Was it because of Constance's presence, or was he upset with her for being gone for so long?

"You should come home. I don't want you alone in that hotel, especially now," Constance said quietly. As soon as the words left her mouth. Constance realized she shouldn't have bothered.

"No, I can't."

"Surely you can just write your book here? You don't need to stay there."

"It isn't about the book." Isabel straightened up and looked at Constance, still holding on tightly to the mug of hot chocolate. "I'm totally blanking on what's happened in the past six weeks. I need to go back to try and find out what I've done."

Isabel was feeling way more terrified than she was letting on. Having no recollection of what she had done was scary. What if she had done something regrettable? God, she didn't even want to think about what might have happened during this forgotten time.

"No, you don't," Constance said firmly. "You can just walk away from it. Don't go back; just stay here. You'll be happier that way."

"And how would you know what makes me happy?" Isabel questioned, growing defiant. Her walls were being built back up, the grudge in the midst of resurrection.

"Because I'm your mother."

Isabel scoffed, shaking her head. She hated it when Constance played that card. How could she claim such a thing when she hadn't been a part of her life for seventeen years? "No, you're―"

"Now you listen here and you listen good, little girl," Constance interrupted. Her tone had completely changed. It was a harsh tone that shut Isabel up. "I did not raise you. But I gave life to you. I did not watch you grow up, but I know you better than you think and I'll be damned if you say I'm not your mother, because I am. Understood?"

Stunned, Isabel nodded a few times. Constance's expression softened and she caressed her daughter's cheek. "Come home, Isabel," she urged, once again using a soft, kind tone.

"I can't." Isabel's reply was meek, as if she was worried about another outburst from Constance. "I made a promise that I'd go back tonight, and I still need to get my things. Tomorrow," she added quickly. "I'll come home tomorrow."

""'""""'""""'""

The Hotel Cortez had given her chills before, but not quite like this. These walls had harbored many secrets from over the years, and now they held hers, too. Secrets that she wasn't even aware of. It was just a question of what secrets were stowed away.

Her feet had automatically taken her to the bar. There was Liz, mixing a drink. There was Sally, sitting on the barstool with a cigarette in hand. When Liz looked up and saw Isabel, Sally turned around. She grinned, setting you cigarette down in an ashtray.

"You came back," she said, obviously relieved and pleased about that.

Liz slid a glass across the bar countertop in Isabel's direction; a gin and tonic. After a moment of hesitance, Isabel approached the bar. It was very clear to Liz that Isabel was troubled and she could guess why. It seemed she had found out just how long she had been there.

"You didn't do anything bad, if that's what you're worried about," said Liz, watching Isabel use the back of her hand to wipe the corner the corner of her mouth.

Actually, she had been worried about that, and felt a little reassured now. But that didn't change the fact that she was missing six weeks of memory.

"Alright, so according to you, I didn't do anything bad. But what  _did_  I do?" Isabel knew she hadn't just stayed in her hotel room for six weeks straight.

"You helped me," said a new voice. It was Alex Lowe, donning the outfit that the Countess loved so much and had given her; the black knee-length dress with the tulle sleeves. Her blonde hair was pinned up and kept out of her face. It had become a classic look for her.

"Who are you?" Isabel didn't recall ever meeting this stranger.

Alex gave a small smile. "My name is Alex. I take of the Countess's children."

"So… I helped you babysit…?"

With a grim expression, Alex shook her head. "You helped with the feeding."

The feeding…? Isabel rolled up the sleeve of her olive green puff blouse and saw dark injection marks on her forearm from when the IV needle had been inserted into her vein. She visibly paled. For the past month and a half, she had been filling blood bags?!

"Why the fuck don't I remember any of this?" Isabel exclaimed, angry, confused, and scared.

"It's the hotel," Alex answered softly, her tone of voice contrasting greatly with Isabel's. "My husband was the same way. For the longest time, he had no recollection of anything that went on in this place."

That wasn't reassuring, or helpful. None of this was helpful! And thinking about this mess really made her head hurt. Hell, Isabel wanted to cry. She had no idea at the moment what was real and what wasn't.

Seeing her distressed, Sally rose from the barstool and stepped over to her. With both hands, she cupped Isabel's cheeks. "It's okay. You're home, Izzy. You're home now, and you don't have to worry about anything."

Isabel pulled away from Sally's touch, shaking her head. This wasn't home. This was a madhouse and she needed to get out of here!

Sally was undeniably hurt when Isabel pulled away from her and walked away from the bar. That wasn't how this was supposed to be! Isabel was supposed to stay and be with her.

Fresh tears streamed down Sally's face, and Isabel took no notice as she continued walking away, her back to the bar and everyone. She had no idea as to where she was going, her mind being too clouded to think. Her feet seemed to be leading her towards the doors.

"You shouldn't do that," Iris warned from the front desk as Isabel passed by her.

This made Isabel pause a moment, as if she was taking these words into consideration. "Why?" she asked Iris with a stony expression.

Iris scoffed quietly. This girl was so naïve, wasn't she? A fool to be pitied. "You honestly think that you can just walk out of here? Waltz away from this place and never look back?"

"Uh, yeah, that's kind of the plan."

Iris wanted to slap the insolence out of this girl. She just couldn't seem to understand. And it was obvious that Isabel wasn't going to listen to her. So, she just gestured to the door. "Fine then, go ahead. But I'd bet my life that you'll be back sooner than you think."

Isabel didn't believe Iris. She walked out without another word, ignoring Sally's sobs of desperation, and the fact that her belongings were still in Room 63. She needed to get away from this place this instant.

She got into her car and pulled out onto the road. Isabel gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The stereo that usually played music had been turned off and silence filled the car.

She drove for ten minutes; not long at all. But it felt like it had taken hours to get only that far. Isabel slowed as she came to a red light.

Frustrated and exhausted from the day she had, Isabel took a moment to just breathe deeply and get herself together. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.

When Isabel lifted her head and opened her eyes, she saw that she was back in the Hotel Cortez, standing in the middle of one of the many hallways.

Before her stood the Countess. "Did you really think you could check out so easily?"


	13. Chapter Twelve

And so, Isabel found herself back in Elizabeth's penthouse. She was seated on the couch, gripping the edge of the cushion tightly. She remembered what Miss Evers had said about the Countess and her desire for blood.

"This cognac is worth two hundred dollars, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't spill any," said the Countess as she handed Isabel a glass of the expensive drink.

Isabel sipped, trying not to let her guard down around this bloodthirsty woman… if she was even a woman.

Was she just being paranoid now? It was hard for her to say. Considering all that had happened, perhaps she had every right to be so on her guard.

"Why can't I get away from this place?" Isabel asked suddenly.

The Countess chuckled. "You're really not one for small talk, are you?" She paused a moment to take a sip of her cognac, and then continued, "You can't leave because the hotel doesn't want you to."

"You mean that you don't want me to leave."

"As much as I would love to have you stay and feed my children like you've been doing, the hotel is out of my control. I may own it, but I am also a slave to it."

There was a long pause as Isabel contemplated these words. Elizabeth talked as if the hotel was alive. And maybe it was. Maybe it was alive and had a hold on everyone who walked through the door, which begged the question: was there a way to escape it?

Isabel took another sip of cognac, trying to organize her muddled thoughts. This proved to be very difficult, and she gave up.

The Countess could clearly read Isabel's internal struggle upon her countenance. "It's more than plenty to process, I understand. There is someone you can talk to. He may be able to help you come to terms with this predicament of yours."

"Who is he?"

"His name is John. You can find him in Room Sixty-Four."

"''""""'""""'""

Isabel stared at the hotel room door. This was the room she was supposed to have checked into. This was the room that used to belong to James P. March. It was a room she had wanted to stay in, but it gave her such an eerie feeling now that she wanted to keep her distance.

When she had been younger, she had read Stephen King's short story, "1408," and it had given her chills. And now, she was reminded of that very story. Hell, she was living that story. Except the entire hotel was fucked up, and not just one single room.

John Lowe opened the door after hearing a knock, and raised his eyebrows, surprised to see the girl who had told him to drink Red Bull and black coffee. The girl who had been helping his wife take care of those freaky vampire kids. When he saw the look on her face; that distinct glint in her eyes, he understood why she was there.

He stepped aside and let her in. The door was closed behind her and Isabel felt so trapped. Was this a good idea?

"So," John began after the door clicked shut, "I'm guessing you've realized just what this hotel can do to you."

Isabel nodded a few times. "I was told you could help me."

"No, I can't help you," John corrected her. "You can only help yourself. But I can explain things."

That wasn't really what Isabel wanted. She didn't want things explained, she just wanted this nightmare to be over with. But all she was going to get from John was his damn explanation.

Taking her lack of response as permission to begin, John plunged into his story. "I've been coming here for five years without realizing it. Time doesn't seem to exist in the hotel. The only way to escape it in a way is to come to terms with what's happened. And even that isn't entirely good enough. You can walk out of the Cortez, but you can never truly leave. Not when it has a hold on you."

Isabel's brow furrowed. She hadn't really listened to what John had said. She had been focusing on the fact that he had unknowingly been coming here for five years. "What have you done in those five years?" she asked, interrupting him.

He did not look at all pleased that she had pretty much ignored his whole spiel except for that one little part. Obviously he wasn't getting through to her. But he knew what he could do to make her listen. "You really want to know?"

Isabel nodded a couple of times. Part of her wanted to say no, especially when an uneasy feeling settled over her when John went over to the bureau and began moving it aside, revealing a door in the wall, but he wasn't giving her another chance to back out.

John beckoned for her to come closer. With heavy feet, Isabel obeyed.

The door opened and the two of them stepped inside.

Before them was a morbid display; a macabre exhibition in a small museum of horrors. In glass display cases were parts that once belonged to other people. Tongues, teeth, a… oh god, was that a penis?!

Feeling like she might faint, the color completely drained from Isabel's face. She wanted to run, but her feet felt like they were stuck in cement. Her eyes were filled with complete and utter fear. All of these had to do with the Ten Commandments according to the labels on the displays. But that had to mean…

Slowly, Isabel looked to John. "Are you―?" God, she couldn't even finish the question.

She didn't need to, though. John knew what she had intended to ask him. Gravely, he nodded. "Yes. I'm the Ten Commandments Killer."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Isabel was at a total loss. It was such a curveball that had been thrown at her, and she was honestly starting to feel like her life was a horrible fanfiction that she used to write when she was in middle school. Nothing was making any sense, and quite frankly it was giving her a killer headache.

She opened her mouth, but couldn't find the words to say. So, she closed her mouth, settling for the silence, though she found it incredibly unnerving.

There was one question she had, and it was one she didn't want answered. That question was a single word that had the ability to unlock critical information: why? Such secrets could be revealed with that simple little word. Yet, Isabel would prefer if those secrets remained unshared. She'd much rather have this silence than know the gruesome reasoning behind such revolting acts.

To her chagrin, the silence didn't last for very long as she and John were joined by a face that was familiar to both of them.

"Ah, Miss Noble! So glad you're getting this chance to admire my work," James said in his usual extravagant way that made him sound like he belonged more in the universe of Gatsby. He continued, "It is quite magnificent, isn't it? Such craftsmanship and bold choices."

Isabel had known about James' murderous habits. However, she thought she was safe from him. But what of John? She didn't know his habits. He could lash out at any second and it would be the end of her!

She was so ill at ease that she actually felt sick to her stomach. Isabel took a step away from the two men. "I… I think I need to lie down," she said, more of to herself than either of the killers.

"My dear, you look positively ghastly," James announced. "I'll send for Miss Evers. She will escort you back to your room. I'd do it myself, of course, as that is the gentlemanly thing to do. I'm afraid there is important business I must discuss with John."

Honestly, Isabel was relieved that it would be Miss Evers and not James who would walk her back to her room. She needed to get away both James and John. So, she walked out of the secret room in the wall and headed towards the door, where Miss Evers stood on the other side, as expected. Isabel left the hotel room, walking alongside the main in the hallway.

"Miss Noble, your room is right here," Miss Evers stated, brow furrowing as she watched Isabel continue walking along the hall, getting further and further away from Room 63.

"Not anymore," Isabel replied, not even glancing over her shoulder. She needed to change her room. She wanted to be as far away from Room 64 as she could get. If she could leave the hotel, she would. For now though, she'd settle on a room change.

"Isabel."

The use of her first name was enough to make Isabel stop and turn to face a worried looking Hazel Evers.

"You need to leave this place. It's too dangerous for you. You are far too trusting of those who are here."

Leaving was what Isabel was trying to do! But she couldn't. This place had a tight hold on her and she couldn't break free of it. "I don't trust anyone here," she told Miss Evers matter-of-factly.

Clearly Miss Evers believed that to be a lie. "You seem to trust me well enough. And that Sally. You best watch out for that one."

Sally… a ghost with serious abandonment issues. Isabel didn't understand the extent of Sally's obsession with people staying with her. She didn't know what Sally would do to ensure that no one left her.

With that being pointed out to her, Isabel realized that perhaps she was a bit too trusting. Was this Hazel's way of saying not to trust her? If that was the case, then she truly was alone. She couldn't rely on anyone for anything in this hotel.

Well, that just meant one thing: she needed to get help from outside of the Hotel Cortez, and Isabel knew exactly who to call.

"''"""'""""'"""

"I was surprised to get your call. I wasn't very much help to you the last time you needed me."

Billie Dean Howard had not changed at all. She still had the same long blonde hair, the same, perfectly manicured nails.

"Last time, there wasn't much you could do," Isabel pointed out, the scar on her arm tingling in remembrance.

Four years ago, when Isabel had lived in the Murder House, she had been attacked by that demon child that was Thaddeus Montgomery. Afraid of what might happen to her because of the bite, Billie Dean was contacted by Isabel's mother. Isabel had been told that there wasn't anything to be done. Thankfully, nothing bad had come of it, and the only reminder was the scar on Isabel's arm.

"Why are you even here?" Last Billie Dean had checked, Isabel had been living out in New Orleans. So, what brought her here to the Hotel Cortez?

"New book." Something innocent. That was what Isabel hated the most: this was just an innocent adventure that had turned into a fight for sanity. "Except now, I can't leave."

Immediately, Billie Dean knew what Isabel meant. She felt a strong, ghostly presence here at the Hotel Cortez. "This place has a hold on you, doesn't it? You've let it latch onto your soul." Billie Dean looked around the lobby. "This place is a parasite, and it will just drain your sanity."

That wasn't comforting.

"But is there a way out?" That was what Isabel wanted to know. Was there a way for her to get out and not suddenly end up back within the confinements of this place?

That was an excellent question, and honestly, Billie Dean didn't have an answer. But she was never one to admit that. Billie Dean truly was a medium. She was also full of shit.

"Sheer willpower," Billie Dean answered. "This place has a hold on you; you need to break away. Don't let it control you."

"This is a giant haunted hotel, not a controlling boyfriend," Isabel stated with a dash of salt in her voice. She folded her arms across her chest. Billie Dean wasn't being helpful in the way Isabel needed her to be. Just telling her to be strong wasn't enough! Isabel needed to know what she could actually do to get away. Being strong wasn't going to do her any good. "Billie Dean, I need to get out of here. I tried, and I ended up right back here. One second I'm on the road and the next, I'm in this damn lobby!" She was getting so riled up about this and in her opinion, it was for very good reason.

"Yes, I know… I've been thinking of having an episode of my show filmed here. I just need the owner to say yes."

Isabel was rendered speechless for a moment. Here she was, asking for help, and Billie Dean was going on about her goddamn TV show!

Seeing the stunned expression on Isabel's face, Billie Dean's own expression softened. "I know I'm not telling you what you want to hear. But it's all I can say. It's a battle you have to fight alone. The hotel is inside of her your mind. You have to push it out." She placed a hand against Isabel's cheek. "Just be strong."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Once again, Isabel was alone. She sat at the bar, her notebook opened in front of her. She had tried writing to help clear her mind and distract her thoughts, but that was proving to be rather difficult.

She was just so angry! Billie Dean had been of no help, and she was still stuck in this wretched hotel. It was enough to make her scream.

"You look awfully lonely," Sally remarked as she approached the bar.

"Maybe I want to be alone," said Isabel without much emotion. She was just so fed up with everything, and didn't want to talk to anyone. However, when she saw Sally's lower lip quiver, she quickly continued, "Sorry. I'm just frustrated." And surely she couldn't be blamed for feeling such a way?

"I get it. You're homesick. You miss your mommy and your perfectly perfect life." Sally spoke mockingly with a dash of disdain. "Ever think you can't leave because you don't want to?"

Isabel scoffed at that. That was absolutely absurd! If she wanted to stay, then why was she trying so hard to leave?

"You laugh, but it's true. You don't want to leave. Every other person who isn't dead has no problem. They had no trouble with not letting this hotel get a hold on their soul. This place has a hold on you because you want it to. That medium said to be strong, and you thought that advice was worthless." Sally paused a moment to light a cigarette. "It wasn't. So be strong, and walk out of the goddamn door if you want out so badly."

As she smoked, fresh tears streamed down her face. Only two people in her life came back to her. One of them wanted to go back to his wife, and the other wanted to go back to her life. And where did that leave Sally? In the dust; abandoned, and forgotten like always.

"I can't!" Isabel snapped. "I tried that and ended up right back here! I'm losing my fucking mind because of this place, and I can't leave!"

She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come, as if Sally had taken them all for herself, like the selfish, possessive bitch that she was. Isabel was seething with frustration and anger now.

Sally, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by Isabel's outburst. She became fixated on the opened notebook that rested on the bar. Just seeing it reminded her of her days as a songwriter. She missed those days, hearing her songs on the radio and hearing words of praise.

"Write," Sally said suddenly.

"What?" Isabel had been caught off guard by the instruction given.

"Write," Sally repeated, pushing the notebook towards Isabel. "You came here to write a book. So get on with it."

"I can't," Isabel argued. "I tried! I got five chapters, that's it! And those five chapters are shit!" She hated that Sally had brought up the writing. Isabel didn't want to talk about that. All of this happened because of a stupid book her father had never written. "I'm not my father! I can't just sit and write a story like this and have it be good. This isn't who I am."

Sally smirked and held out her cigarette to Isabel; she certainly deserved a smoke. "You know," Sally began after a few moments of silence, "this place isn't all bad. Yeah, it's Hell on Earth, but that's because if forces you to face who you really are."

That statement gave Isabel pause. She frowned faintly, thinking on these words.

She always thought she had been Isabel Noble: daughter of Derek Noble, great in English and destined to be like her father, who had always been such a huge influence on her. Now he was dead. Now she wasn't being influenced. Now, it was just her and a blank notebook page.

"I don't know who I am," Isabel said quietly. She stared at her notebook, the blank page laughing at her; mocking her. She couldn't spit out the words that turned into poetry like her father had been able to do. She was not her father.

So then, who was she?

"Well, you have all the time in the world to figure it out. Seems like you're stuck here until you do."

Sally took her cigarette back and left Isabel alone at the bar, where she continued to stare absentmindedly at the notebook.

"People will start thinking you're crazy if you keep staring at that notebook."

Isabel snapped out of her thoughts and turned her head to see Iris approaching the bar. She noticed that the hotel seemed a little darker than before, as if it was nighttime. "What time is it?"

"Nearly midnight."

Isabel groaned and put her head in her hands. Another lapse in time! This was absolutely maddening. She honestly felt like she wanted to cry. Chunks of time passing her by without her even being aware of it; her life being lived while she got left behind.

Iris tilted her head to the side as she watched Isabel. She supposed she would feel bad if she wasn't so used to it. Right now, she didn't care. "Suck it up," Iris suddenly said.

Those words and that tone caught Isabel off guard. She looked at Iris, brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"You think you're going through this alone? You think you're the only one going through hell? You're not, so suck it up like the rest of us and figure out a way to deal with it," Iris instructed sharply. She looked gravely seriously about her words, and she was. She was sick of privileged, self-pitying little girls.

Be strong, Billie Dean had said. Write, Sally had said. Suck it up, Iris said. And Isabel wanted to, but it was so difficult.

She had lost herself. This hotel was clasping her in its clutches, and this was all because she had tried being something she wasn't.

Iris kept a hard gaze, which Isabel held, not backing down. If she was going to get out of here. She needed to find herself.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

"What do you mean you're not coming home yet? You said you'd come back today!"

Constance was standing in her kitchen, phone pressed to her ear. On the other end of the line was Isabel. Isabel, who was still at the hotel, had just explained that she wouldn't be returning home as soon as she had originally said.

"It's important that I stay," Isabel insisted. "It's a long story. But I need to stay here." Not that the hotel would truly let her leave anyway. And that was why she needed to stay: she needed to find herself again to be able to get out.

"It's important that you come home." Constance spoke firmly. "It's dangerous there!"

"Which is why I need you to promise that you won't come after me." She would not be responsible for anyone other than herself in this situation.

How could Constance agree to something like that? Her only living child was at risk, and she was supposed to just stand idly by? This was all insane!

This stiff silence was a good indicator that Constance was not going to let this happen easily, if at all. She would need to be petty if she was going to get her way.

"Mom, please." Isabel spoke softly, pleading. "I need to do this. Alone."

Constance sighed softly. Mom. She knew that Isabel was only calling her that to get her way. Yet it still tugged at her heartstrings. "Promise me you'll come home as soon as you can."

"I promise."

"I love you."

"I know." And then Isabel hung up, pushing the phone across the front desk towards Iris. "Thanks," she said. "I'd also like to request a room change."

Iris smirked. "Can't stand being in Sixty-Three anymore?"

Isabel shook her head. She wasn't going to deny her uneasiness of that room now. What was the use?

"Izzy?"

Isabel turned her head and raised her eyebrows when she saw a face she didn't think she'd ever see again. "Queenie?" She was in disbelief. "But… what are you doing here?"

"Gonna be on the  _Price is Right_ ," Queenie bragged with a boastful expression. "Miss Cordelia got me tickets, and let's just say that I have a pretty good feeling about going."

"Oh my god," Liz gasped as she approached the front desk. "You're one of those witches from that coven in New Orleans! I heard all about you guys on  _Good Morning America_."

"You're not the only one. Been getting recognized everywhere I go." Queenie certainly couldn't deny that it was pretty cool. "You'd know what that would be like if you stuck around, Izzy."

Isabel pressed her lips together in a thin line. She didn't particularly like being reminded of her time spent of Miss Robichaux's in New Orleans. She could feel Liz's eyes on her, though Liz didn't say anything… yet.

Queenie was checked in, and when she had gone, Liz started rambling. "Well, little Miss Noble, aspiring author  _and_ enchantress. You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" she teased lightheartedly.

"I'm not a witch," Isabel insisted. She was stared down by Liz, and she huffed. "Okay, yes, I'm a witch. But not a good one, and I haven't used my powers in a long time."

"And what powers would those be?" Liz asked, fully intrigued while Iris looked a little wary. She had gone years now surrounded by supernatural beings, and other than her son, Donovan, she didn't like them. Iris and the supernatural didn't get along.

Isabel didn't want to answer. She didn't want to talk about it at all. "It doesn't matter. Nothing special." It was abundantly clear that a nerve had been touched. Annoyed, Isabel snatched the key to her new room from Iris and walked away.

When she was gone, Liz and Iris shared a look. "She's never getting out of this place," said Liz knowingly, with a hint of disappointment.

"I'm sure the Countess won't mind," Iris remarked. "Can't say I'm all too pleased."

Liz expected that. Isabel was a rich, privileged girl. She could have the most tragic backstory, but that wouldn't change who she was in Iris's eyes, and Iris hated those types. "Be thankful that she doesn't request beluga caviar on a silver platter for breakfast."

Iris chuckled at that.

"''"""''""""'"""

Isabel set down her suitcase and messenger bag on the bed of her new hotel room. She was glad to be away from John Lowe and―

"I must say, I'm rather hurt," said James, appearing out of nowhere and making Isabel jump in surprise. "I was having a lovely day and I come to find that you've changed rooms. Do you no longer find my company appealing?"

"You're a ghost who can appear anywhere you want in this hotel. I don't see the problem," said Isabel with a salty tone.

James smirked, finding her bitterness amusing. "And here I thought we were friends." He stepped closer, and Isabel stepped back.

He was making her feel uneasy. Before, Isabel had thought she was safe. She had gotten on his good side, and he had no reason to kill her. But six weeks had gone by and she had a six week gap in her memory. So much could have changed, and she was starting to take Miss Evers' warning of being less trusting to heart.

"Don't tell me that you're afraid of me," James said almost tauntingly. He reached out and brushed the back of his hand along Isabel's cheek. "My dear, you have nothing to be worried about. You see, my wife likes you―"

"Your wife?"

"Yes, you've met her already. My darling Elizabeth. She commonly goes by the Countess."

Isabel raised her eyebrows. "So that… that kid in the crib; that demon baby is yours?" She didn't see how though. James was normal (save for being touched in the head) so how did his offspring turn out to be completely inhuman?

Suddenly, Isabel felt a sharp sting as James struck her hard enough to knock her onto the bed. "You will not mention that vile beast to me!" He would not have his name associated with that monstrous creature that was the product of his beloved wife, and her foul lover.

Tears made Isabel's eyes glisten as she tried swallowing the pain. A sob rose to her throat and got caught, though it threatened to slip past her lips.

Angered now, James disappeared, leaving Isabel alone. Or so she thought.

"That's going to leave an ugly bruise," Sally remarked, sitting on the bed beside Isabel, who was cradling her cheek. "But the pain will go away. It always does." Sally reached over to Isabel and brushed away a stray tear with her thumb, cupping Isabel's cheek. "At least he didn't rearrange your face. I can tell he likes you. He likes your face, anyway." And Sally couldn't blame him; her face was intriguing. An old soul trapped in young eyes.

"Which is why he decided to hit me hard enough to leave a bruise?" Isabel asked in disbelief.

"Bruises fade. Scars don't. Be thankful he didn't give you any. This is just him establishing dominance; marking his territory." She watched Isabel's brow furrow in confusion. "He likes to mark some of the girls who come in here. You're his now."

That made Isabel's heart sink. Her last hope of getting out of here was fleeting.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Her eyes were focused on the screen in front of her. She was biting her lower lip in concentration as her thumbs worked at a furious pace. There was an explosion, and her avatar died.

"Dammit!" Isabel dropped the videogame controller in frustration. "This game is impossible."

"Then don't play," said Iris in a bored tone. She walked over to Isabel and slid the IV needle out of her arm and then quickly place a Band-Aid over the pinprick.

They were in the hidden room where the children spent their time when they weren't sleeping in their coffins. Isabel had been brought here to have some of her blood taken for feeding.

Had she protested at first? Absolutely. But then she remembered what Alex Lowe had told her: apparently she had been doing this for weeks. So what was the use in saying no now?

Isabel stood up and wobbled a little, feeling a tad dizzy.

"Easy now," Iris said, holding on to Isabel's arm to help steady her.

However, Isabel insisted she was fine and took a sip of her orange juice. "I'm gonna go visit Queenie," she announced, as if Iris gave a damn (which she most certainly didn't).

She walked over to the door, but before she could walk out, Iris called out to her. "Izzy―" Isabel turned and Iris tossed a bag of dried apricots to her― "make sure you finish those."

"Right, thanks." And Isabel then walked out, opening the bag and starting to eat.

She nearly finished the bag when she reached Queenie's room. "Queenie?" She knocked on the door, which slowly creaked open upon her touch.

Unnerved, Isabel hesitated to go inside. Her gut twisted and screamed at her to stop and just turn around; a warning which she ignored, and immediately regretted doing so.

Blood painted the floor and bed sheets. Isabel's stomach twisted, the sickening sight of it all making her feel nauseous. She dropped the bag of dried apricots, feeling like she might throw up any second.

Queenie was on the bed, dead. Isabel couldn't move; she was too stunned to react with anything more than a look of horror upon her face.

She had known Queenie for a while now. And suddenly, Queenie was dead. But how? How could she be dead when just hours before, Isabel had been talking to her?

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" Isabel whirled around to see James standing in the threshold. Her heart nearly stopped in her chest. "A little sloppy, but it made for an excellent show."

For the first time since being here, Isabel felt paralyzing fear pumping through her veins. He had done this; he had offed a witch like she had been nothing. But there had to be more to the story. Isabel had noticed that parts of Queenie looked like teeth had torn her skin. Had the Countess gotten to her as well?

"So I get dinner  _and_  dessert," said Ramona Royale as she emerged from the bathroom where she had been cleaning up from the bloody brawl that had taken place.

James stood behind Isabel, placing his hands on her shoulders, as if trying to be comforting (and he was anything but). "No, my dear Ramona. Isabel here is not to be feasted upon. She's going to be very beneficial to us, but she must be alive."

Isabel should be reassured by that, right? She needed to be kept alive; she was safe. Yet, she didn't feel any more at ease.

Ramona did not look at all pleased by this. She kept a hungry gaze on Isabel as she scrutinized her. She wasn't pretty, but Ramona would bet that her blood was rich. "Is she really the one to do it?"

"Do what?" Isabel asked timidly.

"Yes, she's perfect for it," James assured Ramona, and Isabel asked, "Perfect for what?" and again, she was ignored. It was frustrating to be ignored when clearly she was to be involved in something violent; possibly something deadly. Oh who was she kidding? This was James March, of course it would be deadly.

She could feel her skin crawling under James' touch and Ramona's judgmental gaze. Isabel wanted nothing more than to just run away, but not before finding out what these two apparently had planned for her.

"I'll believe it when I see it," Ramona remarked cynically. This girl, this mere child, looked like such an emotional weakling. Ramona had her doubts about this girl being the one to kill the Countess.

"Someone tell me what the hell is going on!" Isabel demanded, frustrated and nervous.

James chuckled, turning Isabel around to face him. "You are going to play a very big role in a little scheme I have devised." From within his jacket, James removed a pistol and presented it to Isabel. "You are going to kill my wife."

"''"""'"""""

Isabel stared at the gun. It lay on the bed, not doing much of anything. Yet, Isabel kept her alert gaze on it, as though it may attack her of its own accord.

It was loaded. She hadn't been given any extra ammunition, though she was convinced she would need it. Isabel had never fired a gun before. Suppose she had terrible aim? Suppose the Countess killed her first?

The plan had sounded simple: put a bullet in the Countess and that would be it. Isabel didn't want to do it, but James and that Royale woman had made it very clear that she didn't have a choice. And Isabel was confident that she didn't have a chance. The Countess could very well kill her. And that was alright with James.

This plan of his to get his apprentice to complete the masterful work of the Ten Commandments killings was foolproof. James wanted the Countess dead so that she would be stuck with him and would be unable to stray ever again. And the last person John needed to kill was a murderer; thou shalt not kill.

It was simple: once Isabel killed the Countess, then John would have a very good reason to kill Isabel, and then his work would be complete. Should the Countess kill Isabel first, then it would simply be the Countess who would die at John's hands.

No matter what, James and Ramona would get what they wanted in the end. It was a devious scheme that Isabel wasn't aware of.

Yet.

Miss Evers knew of the plan. Nothing about James March and his plans was a secret to her. She knew everything about him and those dastardly deeds he intended to have carried through.

And now she was at a crossroads. To warn Isabel would mean betraying the man she was so devoted to. To not warn Isabel would mean death for the girl. Should she stay true to the man who would never love her, or to the little girl who had come to the Hotel Cortez all those years ago?

"Miss Evers?" Hazel turned and saw Isabel standing in the doorway of her hotel room; Hazel had been standing in front of it out in the hall. Isabel looked positively ill. "I think I'm going to be sick."


	18. Chapter Seventeen

_November, 2004_

It was nighttime, and Isabel Noble was beyond tired. She had spent the day celebrating her tenth birthday. There had been laughter, music, and sweets… lots of sweets… too many sweets. And now Isabel was paying the price for indulging.

Her little body was hunched over the toilet, Derek holding her hair back. Tears were streaming down her face. It sincerely felt that these waves of sickness would never stop. It was awful! Her throat burned from the stomach acid, and Isabel had begged for milk to soothe the burning sensation. But she had been denied by her father, who knew it would do no good and only make her sick again.

After a few dry heaves, Isabel felt that it was safe to relax a little. She leaned back against Derek, who took a washcloth and dabbed her forehead with it. "Oh sweetie," he cooed, also wiping the tears from her face. "I know it sucks."

Isabel could not reply verbally. She could only whimper and nod.

Derek allowed her some water, but nothing more. When it was determined that she would not be sick again, Derek carried his daughter to her bed.

When she was laying down, Isabel vowed to never get so sick again. It was an awful, horrible feeling that she refused to go through after that day.

"''"""''""""'  
Isabel knelt before the toilet, Miss Evers holding back her hair. Isabel spit the remnants of vomit out of her mouth. The acidic taste lingered, sour and rotten. Isabel nearly got sick again just from the taste that remained on her tongue.

"God," Isabel groaned, sitting up. Miss Evers lot go of her hair, and grabbed a cool washcloth she had set aside, dabbing at Isabel's forehead with it. Isabel's skin was clammy, and she was sickly pale. Her eyeliner was smudged.

"You certainly must be terribly upset," Miss Evers remarked. "I can't imagine why. You should be honored to have been asked to carry out such a task by Mr. March."

So she knew. That shouldn't surprise Isabel. Miss Evers was a maid who kept her ear to the ground; she knew all that went on in the Hotel Cortez.

"I'm not honored," Isabel replied, her voice weaker than she wanted. "I'm not a killer."

"Isn't that what all killers say at first?"

Isabel gave Miss Evers a deadly glare. She was not a killer; she would not become tainted with blood on her hands. Was she innocent? Could she be enshrouded in a holy light that rang out with purity?

No.

But Isabel Noble was not a murderer. How could she be when the very idea of ending someone's life, even the Elizabeth's, was making her ill? She certainly didn't like how Hazel was looking at her; with a piercing, knowing gaze. It was as if Hazel was looking at a part of her; a part which Isabel didn't know existed. But that simply could not be possible. Isabel knew herself better than Miss Evers knew her.

"I want to be alone," Isabel said as sharply as she could manage.

"You're sick."

"I'll be fine."

"You oughtn't to be alone."

A bitter, resentful laugh sneaked past Isabel's colorless, chapped lips. "I'm never alone in this place."

Grudgingly, Miss Evers left Isabel alone, walking out of the hotel room. And sure enough, Sally appeared moments later.

"You have one hell of a hangover, don't you?" Sally sat down next to Isabel on the bathroom floor.

"It's not a hangover." Isabel spoke bitterly. "James wants me to kill someone."

Sally smirked faintly. "Told you he liked you."

Isabel was not amused. However, she didn't tell Sally to leave like she had done with Miss Evers, knowing full well that Sally wouldn't listen to her. She was clingy like that.

"Well, I wish he didn't like me so much," she mumbled. But wouldn't liking her less mean he would have killed her by now? So it was really a lose/lose situation. Isabel felt like she found herself in a lot of those. It was rather unfortunate.

On shaky legs, Isabel stood up from the bathroom floor and walked over to the hotel bed. She collapsed onto it, laying on her now empty stomach. Throwing up had not helped her feel better at all. In fact, she only felt worse. Her mouth was dry, skin clammy, stomach empty, and heart heavy.

Sally picked up the pistol from the bed as if it was nothing more than a blank sheet of paper, and set it down on the nightstand. She then lay on the bed beside Isabel, staring up at the ceiling.

"I'm guessing the journey to self-discovery isn't going so great."

Isabel turned her head so that she was looking at Sally. "Miss Evers thinks I'm a murderer at heart."

"Are you?"

"You tell me: do all killers get sick at the thought of shooting someone?" Isabel asked with heavy sarcasm.

How could Sally ask such a thing? Of course she wasn't a killer! She had witnessed killings and bloodshed, but she did not partake in such atrocities!

"Don't knock it 'til you try it."

Isabel glared at Sally. "Can we not talk about this? A friend of mine was brutally murdered, and I've been asked to kill the Countess, who's probably going to kill me first. This is really the last thing I want to think about." She turned her head, once more shoving her face into a pillow.

She stay that way for hours, not moving a muscle. At one point, Sally thought she had fallen asleep. But no, Isabel was still wide awake, just deep in thought.

The one question that kept nagging at her was: could she become her brother?

Tate Langdon had died before she was born in 1994. He had been killed by the Los Angeles SWAT team because he had gone and shot up Westfield High. Could Isabel embody that same heartlessness and kill the Countess?

When Isabel finally forced herself up from the bed, she saw that Sally was gone. As if in a trance, she reached over to the nightstand and picked up the pistol that James had provided her with. It was heavier than it looked. Heavy with guilt. This gun had not wanted to be used to end lives.

"Just one more," Isabel murmured to the pistol. "Just one more, and that's it." It would claim one more life and then it could be put to rest.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

"I need a dress."

Liz looked up from wiping down the bar counter to see a rather desperate looking Isabel. She raised her eyebrows and looked the young woman over. "You're wearing a dress," she pointed out, gesturing to Isabel's paisley off-the-shoulder boho dress.

Isabel rolled her eyes. "Not in the mood for sass right now. I need a nice dress."

"Well, you certainly came to the right girl." Liz smirked. "So, what, you have a date you need to be all dolled up for?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Ooh, with who?"

"With destiny. Now are you gonna help me out or not?"

"''"""""'""""

"Hold still," Liz lightly scolded Isabel as she put on the finishing touches of her eye makeup.

"Liz, I said I needed a dress, not a full makeover."

Liz rolled her eyes. "I'm well aware. But I wasn't about to let you make a fabulous dress look subpar with your mediocre makeup skills. Now, for the last time, hold still." She finished applying the mascara and moved on to choosing an appropriate shade of blush. "So really, who's your date with?"

"Not important." Isabel didn't want to tell Liz. That might lead to unwanted questions. All Isabel wanted to do was go to the Countess, kill her, and be done with it. Was that too much to ask? Of course, murder was never simple. There would always be a few bumps along the way, and right now, one of those bumps was Liz Taylor asking questions Isabel didn't want to answer.

Finally, Liz said the magic words: "You're all set."

Isabel put her glasses on to see her reflection in the mirror. "Oh wow." Liz had done a spectacular job with contouring, and the gold eyeliner with dusky plum eyeshadow (which matched the plum dress) totally made her eyes pop.

"You're not wearing those glasses right? You have contacts?"

"What's wrong with my glasses?"

Liz looked sympathetic; the poor dear had no idea about the fashion faux pas she was committing. "Sweetie, that Helvetica travesty is beyond tacky." Isabel gave an unamused glare. "Just being helpful. Now go and slay."

Isabel really wished that Liz had chosen a different word.

""'"""""'"""""'""

Her contact lenses were in her eyes. Her clutch was in her hands. Her dress clung to her body, and her heels pinched her toes. That wasn't what made Isabel shift uncomfortably in front of the door that led in the Countess's penthouse. It was the gun in her clutch.

The Countess opened the door and raised her eyebrows. "Well, you certainly know how to clean up." She recognized the dress as one of Liz's, but she didn't comment on that. It wasn't like that mattered. What mattered was why. "And what brings you here all dolled up?"

"Been doing a lot of thinking about some things. Can I come in?"

Elizabeth stepped aside, granting Isabel permission to come in. As Isabel stepped past her, Elizabeth studied her, wearing a small smirk. "Something to drink?" she offered.

"Please." A drink was just what Isabel needed to help calm her nerves. A bit of liquid courage; Isabel could use all of the extra strength she could get. She was extremely surprised that she wasn't shaking. Or maybe she was and just didn't realize it?

A glass of brandy was brought to her. She sipped it greedily, shuddering at the taste but drinking it anyway.

"Nervous about something?" the Countess asked almost tauntingly. She could hear the girl's heartbeat racing. It was taking a lot of self-control to not just pounce on this frightened little lamb. Her blood was sweet, and Elizabeth wanted it straight from the source, not just from a crystal carafe.

"No," Isabel said quickly, and she could tell that the Countess knew she was lying. "Yes… sort of."

Elizabeth cocked her head to the side, scrutinizing Isabel. "About what?"

There was a bit of a pause as Isabel tried choosing her words carefully. "Like I said, I've been doing some thinking―"

"That can be dangerous," the Countess interrupted with an unsettling chuckle, and Isabel felt compelled to weakly laugh along. She really was a nervous wreck, wasn't she? Poor little lamb… Elizabeth stepped forward, her hand brushing against Isabel's cheek. She wanted her; she wanted her blood. "Why don't you let me do all the thinking and you just enjoy?"

Before Isabel could argue or protest, Elizabeth pulled her into an intoxicating kiss, and for a fleeting moment, Isabel forgot about the gun in her clutch, though she continued to hold onto it tightly. The Countess nipped at her bottom lip, and then ran her tongue over it. She pulled away, and rest her forehead against Isabel's.

It was a moment of tenderness, and then it was gone. Elizabeth took the glass out of Isabel's hand, setting it down on the coffee table. Isabel was then pushed onto the couch.

Remembering the gun, and not wanting the Countess to discover it, Isabel set her clutch aside before the Countess could do it for her.

Without warning, Elizabeth straddled Isabel's waist. She wasn't going to bother with the sweetness; she wanted blood… and sex. That was always a plus. She started kissing along Isabel's neck, and then used her teeth to scrape against her skin. Elizabeth would have this witch's blood.

Isabel's skinned prickled from pleasure and danger. This wasn't right, but it was what she wanted. The Countess was so focused on getting her to submit, that she was surely oblivious to everything else.

Their lips met again, and this time, Isabel responded with a bit more confidence. She kissed back with fervor, her tongue even coming out to play. She brought her arms around the Countess, holding the woman close, though every fiber of her being was screaming at her to push her away. She could feel the Countess reach around her body, feeling for the zipper of the dress.

Perfect.

Isabel took the opportunity to sneak her hand towards her clutch, which rested next to her on the couch. She reached into it and pulled out the gun, slowly dragging it towards herself. She flinched when she cocked it, for it clicked loudly. Loud enough to draw Elizabeth's attention.

The Countess pulled away and saw the gun. Infuriated, Elizabeth immediately raised her hand, which bore a clawed glove with a talon sharp enough to slice through skin like a hot knife through soft butter. Isabel tried jerking away, but it proved to be difficult with the Countess on top of her. She attempted to move quickly, and felt a searing pain as the Countess used the talon to break her skin.

Warm blood poured from the cut in her neck. Adrenaline pumping through her veins, Isabel mustered her strength, and pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out and hurt Isabel's ears. She felt warm blood spill from her neck and from the Countess. So much red…

Elizabeth was slumped on top of her, and Isabel felt too weak to move the dead weight. So she lay there, helpless, and then passed out.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

Everything hurt. That was the only way that really registered with Isabel. Everything, especially her neck, ached. Her eyes opened, though that didn't help much. Wherever she was, it was dark. Within a few seconds though, her eyes somewhat adjusted to the darkness, though her vision was still a bit blurry. With great difficulty, Isabel tried sitting up, and immediately regretted it. Her head began spinning and she felt sick.

"Easy there," a gentle voice said. The owner of the voice put a hand on Isabel's shoulder, guiding her back down. "You shouldn't be moving."

"Sally?" Isabel turned her head to see Sally by her side, sitting on the edge of the hotel bed that she had been laid on. It hurt to talk; her throat was so dry. She desperately wanted a drink of water. Hell, she'd kill for a glass of water with ice.

Kill…

She had killed someone. She had actually killed someone. Yes, that someone had been the Countess, who had tried killing her. That didn't make a difference. Murder was murder, and Isabel had committed it. The very thought of it made her feel ill.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and Isabel's lower lip quivered involuntarily. She had pulled the trigger. And the worst part? She didn't feel guilty.

She wanted to be sick. She wanted to vomit and flush out this toxic choice she had made. But she couldn't. It wouldn't come out. The toxicity wouldn't come out of her body. It remained, and she could feel it rotting her insides; destroying her.

"Shh, it's alright," Sally whispered as she brushed Isabel's hair away from her face. She knew that Isabel was freaking out, and what she was freaking out about. "You get used to it."

She didn't want to get used to it. Getting used to it scared her. The best thing to do, she supposed, was to just not think about it. Not think about the blood, about the pain, about how the Countess nearly killed her…

Wait, shouldn't she be dead?

Isabel brought her hand to her neck where the Countess had sliced her. She flinched slightly at the contact, but noticed that the wound wasn't opened. It had been stitched shut.

"She nearly got your jugular," Sally informed Isabel, speaking so nonchalantly. "But she missed. I stitched you up. It's gonna hurt like hell, but you're alive."

"Thank you," Isabel said weakly. Yes, she was in pain. But she was safe, and not dead.

There was a bit of a pause, and then Sally asked, "You're not going to leave me, are you?"

Isabel almost hadn't heard her; Sally had spoken so quietly, and Isabel's head was still out of sorts. When she made sense of the question, she reached out to Sally, who took her hand. It was a question that Sally had asked before, and Isabel vaguely remembered answering. She held Sally's watery gaze. "No."

"''""""'"""""  
It was late. Isabel didn't know what time it was; she couldn't turn her head to see the clock, and her phone was in an unknown place at the moment. She knew it was late because the hotel room was dark. Isabel figured she ought to be sleeping. Doctors always recommended sleep to help with healing. But she couldn't bring herself to drift off.

She felt the weight on the bed shift.

"Sally?"

"Not quite." No, it was James, the bastard who encouraged her to corrupt her morals. "So it seems you've gotten into quite the altercation." His fingertips gently brushed against the stitched cut on her neck, and felt Isabel flinch upon his touch. "My darling Elizabeth is quite fierce, isn't she?"

"She nearly killed me."

"Ah, but she didn't," James pointed out. "You survived my dear, and because of you, I may now spend eternity with her." All of a sudden, he was close, and his lips brushed against Isabel's in a soft kiss, which she neither accepted nor rejected. "Thank you."

And then he was gone. Gone, like the fine morning mist suddenly vanishing, and Isabel was all alone.

Being alone wouldn't be so bad if she was allowed to move. However, Isabel was bedridden until her neck healed enough, which seemed to take forever. Every day, Sally would come to check her stitches. Isabel was brought food by Miss Evers. She was able to sit up, but was advised to not get out of bed without help (which made going to the bathroom to shower and such extremely annoying).

Finally, the time came for Isabel to be able to move like usual. The first thing she did was go and take a shower. She rinsed off her worries and pain as best she could. She scrubbed beneath her fingernails and let the hot water soak into her skin.

Isabel stepped out of the shower, and with the towel wrapped around her, she started brushing out her long brown hair, thinking that she really needed a haircut. Isabel put her hairbrush down and wiped the steam covered mirror, revealing a figure in the reflection that was not her own.

Eyes wide, Isabel whirled around, clutching her towel tightly to her body as she came face-to-face with a gun, which was being held by none other than John Lowe.

The Ten Commandments Killer.

"W-what are you doing?" Isabel sputtered, her heart rate picking up. She felt stupid asking that. Clearly she could see what he was doing.

"Thou shalt not kill," said John, cocking the gun.

Isabel recognized it as the gun James had given her to use on the Countess. However, having it pointed at her made it difficult for her to recognize the significance of that, if there was any. The only thing that really did register was that he was going to kill her, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

Wait, yes there was.

They say when faced with death, life is supposed to flash before the eyes. And for Isabel, that was sort of the case. Her life started flashing before her eyes, and there was one moment that stood out to her:

_Queenie was checked in, and when she had gone, Liz started rambling. "Well, little Miss Noble, aspiring author_ and _enchantress. You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" she teased lightheartedly._

_"I'm not a witch," Isabel insisted. She was stared down by Liz, and she huffed. "Okay, yes, I'm a witch. But not a good one, and I haven't used my powers in years."_

"You are not going to kill me," Isabel said firmly, maintaining eye contact with John. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she focused on him, specifically his mind. She had never successfully performed Concilium before. The power to control others could be extremely difficult depending on how weak minded the person being controlled was. Isabel felt John fighting her as she tried tapping into his mind, but he wasn't strong enough. He was easily influenced, and the hotel had messed with him so much… "You are not going to kill me," Isabel repeated, this time in a more confident tone.

The hand that held the gun was shaking as John kept trying to fight Isabel's hold on him. But he was fighting a losing battle. The gun started to lower and Isabel began relaxing a little bit, watching tears come to John's eyes.

And then there was a change. The gun raised again, but this time, against John's will, the nozzle turned to face John. Tears slid down his cheeks as he kept fighting and fighting and fighting. He put the nozzle of the gun in his mouth.

It went off with a loud bang, and John fell to the floor. Isabel gave a little scream in response to the gunshot. Blood began pooling around John's head, the puddle spreading towards her feet. Isabel turned to face the mirror again, and saw her own horrified expression slowly fade. She examined the scarring on her neck from where the Countess had sliced her, and then met her own eyes in the mirror's reflection.

She saw her lips moving, and her voice speaking, but it didn't feel like she was the one talking and saying:

_I am Isabel. I'm a witch. And I'm a murderer_.

Both she and the hotel breathed a sigh of relief.


	21. Epilogue

"You're leaving."

Isabel looked up from her suitcase to see Sally leaning against the wall. A cigarette was held dangerously loose in her fingers, a wisp of smoke rising up from the end of it. Sally's eyes glistened with tears as per usual. Slowly, Isabel nodded. "Yeah, I am." And it wasn't like last time where it was only for a day. She was leaving for much longer.

"You said you'd never leave me."

Those words seemed to whack Isabel in the chest, making her lose air for a moment. It was the absolute truth: she had promised Sally that she wouldn't leave. Isabel stared at her suitcase. She expected her clothes to mock her, to tell her that she was awful for breaking a promise that she made multiple times. But they did no such thing. They let her be to make her own choice.

She drew away from the suitcase, walking over to Sally. "I'm not leaving you. I'm just going away. I'm going home."

"So you  _are_  leaving me," Sally accused, not sounding at all happy. Isabel had promised! She had promised to stay with her and now she was breaking that promise! It was heartbreaking to Sally, and her tears started to fall.

Isabel reached out, and wiped away a few of Sally's tears. She didn't want her to cry, though Sally was in a constant state of sadness. This sad, depressed ghost who went through hell every day, had grown attached to her, and saved her life.

Isabel kissed Sally with the lips that touched those of James Patrick March. Perhaps a stupid idea, for she wanted to get away to this place, and this might draw Sally closer to her.

"Think of it more as taking a leave of absence," said Isabel quietly, pulling away from Sally. Maybe she would come back to this place. But if she did, it most certainly would not be for a long, long while. "I need to finish packing." Isabel turned her back to Sally, who remained a few moments longer before vanishing.

The peace didn't last forever. As Isabel zipped up her suitcase, she felt hands on her shoulders. She did not whirl around in surprise, recognizing the touch. "Must you go so soon, my dear?" James asked. "And here I thought we were going to have some fun. That was quite a show you put on with John."

James was immensely proud of Isabel. John had been his apprentice, carrying out the rest of the commandment killings that he had been unable to finish. Except for the last one; that had been Isabel. She was the one who had finished his work.

Isabel shrugged off James' touch, and forced herself to face him. It was surprisingly difficult. This man had tried turning her into a monster; his monster. James had tried to melt her down so that he could pour her into his own mold so she would become his version of Isabel Noble.

She took a deep breath, mustering up strength. Isabel wanted to slap him across the face. She stepped towards him and pressed her lips against his in a kiss. And then, Isabel bit down on his lip, hard.

James pulled away in surprise. He brought a hand to his lower lip. At first, his brow furrowed in shock and anger. Then, he grinned. "It was an absolute pleasure knowing you, Miss Noble."

He gave a polite bow, and then she was alone.

Isabel walked into the bathroom and looked at her reflection. Her fingertips traced the freshly closed wound on her neck; Sally had taken the stitches out yesterday and it had hurt like hell. The scar that would undoubtedly form would be ugly and dark. Hopefully, it would fade over time. But it would always be there. A constant reminder of what she had done.

She looked up at the ceiling. "Well, I'm leaving," she said, speaking to the hotel (and feeling a bit like an idiot). "Are you gonna try and stop me?"

There was no response from the hotel. She sighed, and went to get her messenger bag and suitcase. Only one way to find out the answer.

"''""""'"""''

The door to the Murder House opened slowly. Every move Isabel made was hesitant, afraid that she would space out again and end up back at the hotel. But once she stepped inside the house, she felt at ease.

She dropped her suitcase and messenger bag on the ground with a loud thud. Moira walked out from the kitchen and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Isabel.

"Oh my god," she managed to say as she came forward, pulling Isabel into a tight embrace. "You're back. You're staying, aren't you?" she asked, pulling away and looking at me worriedly.

"Yes," Isabel said, and she felt beyond relieved to be able to say that. "Yes, I'm staying."

Moira insisted on making her tea while she unpacked. Isabel was unable to deny her, and brought her things up to her room while Moira put on the kettle.

As Isabel started unpacking, she glanced to the window. The curtains were drawn back, letting the sunlight in. She walked over to it and looked out, seeing the neighboring house. After a moment of thought, Isabel made up her mind and left her room, heading down the stairs.

Hearing the door knock was not something Constance had been expecting. Smoothing out her dress, making sure she looked presentable, she went to the front door and opened it.

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw her daughter standing at her doorstep. There was a long pause of silence. Constance stepped out of her house so she was standing directly in front of Isabel.

Wordlessly, they hugged.

"''"""""'"""""

That night, Isabel sat in her father's study, laptop in front of her with a blank Word document opened. A cup of chamomile tea sat beside the laptop. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

"What are you doing?"

Isabel looked up to see Tate in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She grinned at seeing her brother. She had missed him terribly, but had known better than to go looking for him. It was best to let Tate come to her.

"I'm writing my first bestseller," Isabel boasted, sitting back in her chair, taking in the sight of her brother. Her brother who was supposed to be older than her, but wasn't because he had died before she was even born.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, really."

Isabel took a sip of her tea, and then put her fingers on the keyboard of her laptop. She began typing away.


End file.
